It was moonlight, and the dwarf oak-trees made druid shadows all along
the leafy galleries that overhung the pools. The pools themselves shone
with a startling silver--so hushed, so dreamy was all that surrounded
them that there seemed something of an unnatural wakefulness, a daylight
observation, in their brilliant surfaces,--and on them, as last year,
the lilies floated like the crowns of sunken queens. But the third pool
lay more in shadow, and by that, as it seemed to Beatrice, a light was
shining.
Yes, a light was shining and a voice was calling. "Mother," it called,
"little Mother. I am waiting for you. Here, little Mother. Here by the
water-lilies we could not gather."
Beatrice, following the voice, stepped along the causeway and sank among
the lilies; and as she sank she seemed to see Antony bending over the
pond, saying: "How beautiful she looks, how beautiful, lying there among
the lilies!"
* * * * *
On the morrow, when they had drawn Beatrice from the pond, with lilies
in her hair, Antony bent over her and said:--
"It is very sad--Poor little Beatrice--but how beautiful! It must be
wonderful to die like that.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98