Slowly along one of these, a
bright-gowned merchant rode a white pony, his bells tinkling in the
stillness of sea and land. Everywhere, like other bells more tiny and
shrill, sounded the trilling of frogs.
As the two on the pagoda stood listening,--
"It was before Rome," she declared thoughtfully. "Before Egypt, and has
never changed. You and I are just--" She broke off, humming:--
"Only here and now? Behold
They were the same in years of old!"
Her mood colored the scene: the aged continuity of life oppressed him.
Yet he chose rather to watch the straggling battlements, far off, than
to meet her eyes or see her hair gleaming in the sun. Through many
troubled days he had forgotten her, despised her, bound his heart in
triple brass against a future in her hateful neighborhood; and now,
beside her at this time-worn rail, he was in danger of being happy. It
was inglorious. He tried to frown.
"You poor boy." Suddenly, with an impulse that must have been generous,
she rested her hand on his arm. "I was sorry. I thought of you
so often."
At these close quarters, her tremulous voice and searching upward glance
meant that she alone understood all his troubles.
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