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by necklaces of gold and clasps of gold and jewelled roses,
but she was fair and fresh and festive and light as a banner
that flies in the wind. There was none like her, nor is there
now.”
“Ay, and a better one,” cried young Remigius,
jumping up. He bent forward across the table, supporting
himself with one hand, while the other swung a bright goblet,
from which the golden grape brimmed over, wetting his
fingers and wrist and falling in clear drops from his full
white lace ruffles. His cheeks were flushed with wine, his
eyes shone, and he spoke in an unsteady voice.
“Beauty! Are you blind, one and all, or have you never
even seen the Lady from Denmark—not so much as seen
Mistress Marie! Her hair is like the sunlight on a field when
the grain is ripe. Her eyes are bluer than a steel blade, and
her lips are like the bleeding grape. She walks like a star in
the heavens, and she is straight as a sceptre and stately as
a throne, and all, all charms and beauties of person are hers
like rose upon rose in flowering splendor. But there is that
about her loveliness which makes you feel, when you see
her, as on a holy morn when they blow the trumpets from
the tower of the cathedral. A stillness comes over you, for
she is like the sacred Mother of Sorrows on the beauteous
painting; there is the same noble grief in her clear eyes,
and the same hopeless, patient smile around her lips.”
He was quite moved. Tears came to his eyes, and he tried
to speak, but could not, and remained standing, struggling
with his voice to utter the words. A man sitting near him
laid a friendly hand on his shoulder and made him sit down.
They drank together goblet after goblet, until all was well.
The mirth of the old fellows rose high as before, and
nothing was heard but laughter and song and revelry.
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