“I’ll have no festival myself unless someone takes pity on me,” he said. (That was it.) “Would you—come and dance with me? It is only a servants’ ball . . .” (She was a little frightened at her own boldness in asking someone so far above her in station, yet trembling-hopeful he would accept.) “Why—have you no partner?” “My friend has been called away to serve in the army. I have my ticket already and it will only be three spadas for yourself.” (Somehow he would get them; it would be an afternoon of real relaxation from complexities.) “You honor me, Demoiselle Damaris. Where shall I meet you?” “Oh, I will wake you with breakfast as usual, and wait for you. Here is the door.” The box was larger than one might think from the outside, and already heavy with the perfume of flowers. 10 PRELUDE TO THE SERVANTS’ BALL Under the colored lanterns swinging from trees, there were already a score or more carriages lining the side drives. Coachmasters talked in groups. The doors of the hall stood open, a wide bar of light silhouetting those who came on foot from the opera-hall, and turning to a more vivid green the tender grass. Violins sounded piercingly; as Rodvard joined the throng at the entrance, striving to walk with Cleudi’s slight strut, he saw how all the floor beyond was covered with jewels and flashing feet, while nearby the mingled voices were so high that only the rhythm of the music was audible, with women’s laughter riding on all like a foam. Right behind him a bearded Prophet of Mancherei showed the slim legs of a girl through an artfully torn silken robe, and tossed at him a rouge-ball which marked his white jacket; he must weave his way to the foot of the stairs around a group gaily trying with tinsel swords to attack an armored capellan, pausing to bow before one of twenty queens. Halfway up the stairs in the dim of the balustrade, an archer of the guard, with his star-badge picked out in emeralds, was kissing a sea-witch in flowing blue. They disembraced at his footfalls; the sea-girl leaped up and threw her arms around Rodvard’s neck, crying; “Snowlord from Kjermanash, I will melt you. Did I not tell you, ser archer, that witches are all fickle?” “But are tamed by those who battle for them,” said the archer, as Rodvard gave her the kiss she sought. (Behind her eyes was nothing but reckless pleasure.) “My lord of Kjermanash, I challenge you; will you duel or die for her?” “Oh, fie!” cried the sea-girl. “No one shall ever tame me,” and giving them each a box on the ear in a single motion, ran lightfoot and laughing down the steps to throw herself on the capellan, shouting that he was her prisoner. “Lost! Lost!” cried the archer in mock agony. “Come, my lord, let us make an alliance for the conquest of witches less fickle than the marine. I will provide the arm and you the purse, from that secret gold-mine which all Kjermanash keep.”