Mary Taylor opened her lips to rebuke this levity when suddenly the coachman called out and the horses swerved, and the carriage’s four occupants faced a young man and a young woman embracing heartily.
Out through the wood Bles and Zora had come to the broad red road; playfully he celebrated all her beauty unconscious of time and place.
“You are tall and bend like grasses on the swamp,” he said.
“And yet look up to you,” she murmured.
“Your eyes are darkness dressed in night.”
“To see you brighter, dear,” she said.
“Your little hands are much too frail for work.”
“They must grow larger, then, and soon.”
“Your feet are far too small to travel on.”
‚ÄúThey‚Äôll travel on to you‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs far enough.‚Äù
‚ÄúYour lips‚ÅÝ‚Äîyour full and purple lips‚ÅÝ‚Äîwere made alone for kissing, not for words.‚Äù
“They’ll do for both.”
He laughed in utter joy and touched her hair with light caressing hands.
“It does not fly with sunlight,” she said quickly, with an upward glance.
“No,” he answered. “It sits and listens to the night.”
But even as she nestled to him happily there came the harsh thunder of horses’ hoofs, beating on their ears.