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“Alack, good Lord, what legs they are!” whimpered
the sick man and stopped; for his knees shook under him.
“Now she’s all out of sight”—he looked longingly at
the wicket—“all out of sight! And there will be no
promenade to-day, the harbinger says, and it’s so long till
tomorrow!”
“There, there, Daniel dear, the time will pass, and you
can rest to-day and be stronger to-morrow, and then we shall
follow her all through the woods way down to the wicket,
indeed we shall. But now we must go home, and you shall
rest on the soft couch and drink a good pot of ale, and then
we shall play a game of reversis, and later on, when their
highnesses have supped, Reinholdt Vintner will come, and
then you shall ask him the news, and we’ll have a good
honest lanterloo, till the sun sinks in the mountains, indeed
we shall, Daniel dear, indeed we shall.”
“’Ndeed we shall, ’ndeed we shall!” jeered Daniel.
“You with your lanterloo and games and reversis! When
my brain is burning like molten lead, and my mind’s in a
frenzy, and—Help me to the edge of the road and let me
sit down a moment—there! Am I in my right mind, Magnille?
Huh? I’m mad as a fly in a flask, that’s what I am.
’T is sensible in a lowborn lout, a miserable, mangy, rickety
wretch, to be eaten up with frantic love of a prince’s
consort! Oh ay, it’s sensible, Magnille, to long for her till
my eyes pop out of my head, and to gasp like a fish on dry
land only to see a glimpse of her form and to touch with
my mouth the dust she has trodden—’t is sensible, I’m
saying. Oh, if it were not for the dreams, when she comes
and bends over me and lays her white hand on my tortured
breast—or lies there so still and breathes so softly and is
so cold and forlorn and has none to guard her but only me
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