Gilbert Warde was as much a born sportsman as he was a fighter, and he
had stalked the fallow-deer in Stortford woods since he had been old
enough to draw an arrow's head to his finger.
Step by step, from tree to tree, with cat-like tread, he came nearer,
amused by an almost boyish pleasure in his own skill. Once the lady
moved, but she looked in the opposite direction, and then at last, when
he was within a dozen yards of her, half-sheltered by a slender stem,
she looked straight across toward him, and the light fell upon her
face. He knew that she saw him, but he could not have moved from the
spot if it had been to save his life, for the lady was Beatrix herself.
In spite of a separation that had lasted two years, in spite of her
final growth out of early girlhood, he knew that he was not mistaken,
and her dark eyes were looking straight into his, telling him that she
knew him, too. There was no fear in them, and she showed no surprise,
but as she looked, a very lovely smile came into her sad face. He was
so glad to see her that he thought little or not at all of her looks.
But she was not beautiful in any common sense, and, saving the
expression in her face, she could hardly have passed for pretty in the
presence of Queen Eleanor and of most of her three hundred ladies. Her
forehead was round and full rather than classic, and the thick dark
eyebrows were somewhat rough and irregular, turning slightly upwards as
they approached each other, a peculiarity which gave an almost pathetic
expression to the eyes themselves; the small and by no means perfectly
shaped nose was sensitively drawn at the nostrils, but had also an odd
look of independence and inquiry; and the wide and shapely lips were
more apt to smile with a half-humorous sadness than to part with
laughter.
Pages:
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189