It was four o'clock in the afternoon; a fresh wind redolent of pine and resin blew across the lake.Maurice climbed into a boat and pulled away with a strong, swift stroke, enjoying the liberation of his muscles.A quarter of a mile out he let the oars drift and took his bearings.He saw the private gardens of the king and the archbishop, and, convinced that a closer view would afford him entertainment, he caught up the oars again and moved inland.
The royal gardens ran directly into the water, while those of the archbishop were protected by a wall of brick five or six feet in height, in the center of which was a gate opening on the water.Behind the gate was a small boat dock.Maurice plied the oars vigorously.He skirted the royal gardens, and the smell of newly mown lawns filled the air.Soon he was gliding along the sides of the moss-grown walls.A bird chirped in the overhanging boughs.He was about to cast loose the oars again, when the boat was brought to a violent stop.A few yards waterward from the gate there lay, hidden in the shadowed water, a sunken pier.On one of the iron piles the boat had become impaled.
Maurice was tumbled into the bow of the boat, which began rapidly to fill.First he swore, then he laughed, for he was possessed of infinite good humor.The only thing left for him to do was to swim for the gate.With a rueful glance at his thin clothes, he dropped himself over the side of the wreck and struck out toward the gate.The water, having its source from the snowclad mountains, was icy.He was glad enough to grasp the lower bars of the gate and draw himself up.He was on the point of climbing over, when a picture presented itself to his streaming eyes.
Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl.She held in her hand a book, but she was not reading it.She was scanning the unwritten pages of some reverie; her eyes, dark, large and wistful, were holding communion with the god of dreams.
A wisp of hair, glossy as coal, trembled against a cheek white as the gown she wore.
At her side, blinking in the last rays of the warm sun, sat a bulldog, toothless and old.Now and then a sear leaf, falling in a zig-zag course, rustled past his ears, and he would shake his head as if he, too, were dreaming and the leaves disturbed him.
All at once he sniffed, his ears stood forward, and a low growl broke the enchantment.The girl, on discovering Maurice, closed the book and rose.The dog, still growling, jumped down and trotted to the gate.Maurice thought that it was time to speak.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "pardon this intrusion, but my boat has met with an accident."The girl came to the gate."Why, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you are wet!""That is true," replied Maurice, his teeth beginning to knock together."I was forced to swim.If you will kindly open the gate and guide me to the street, I shall be much obliged to you."The gate swung outward, and in a moment Maurice was on dry land, or the next thing to it, which was the boat-dock.
"Thank you," he said.
"O! And you might have been drowned," compassion lighting her beautiful eyes."Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must be weak.And it was that sunken pier? I shall speak to Monseigneur; he must have it removed.Bull, stop growling; you are very impolite; the gentleman is in distress."Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the desire to gain the street had suddenly subsided.Who was this girl who could say "must" to the formidable prelate? His quick eye noticed that she showed no sign of embarrassment.Indeed, she impressed him as one who was superior to that petty disturbance of collected thought.Somehow it seemed to him, as she stood there looking down at him, that he, too, should be standing.But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when he made as though to rise.What an exquisite face, he thought.
Against the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy petals.Innocent, inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose tranquil depths lay the glory of the world, asleep.Presently a color, faint and fugitive, dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks.
Maurice, conscious of his rudeness and of a warmth in his own cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said.
"What is your name, Monsieur," she asked calmly.
"It is Maurice Carewe.I am living in Vienna.I came to Bleiberg for pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious," with an apologetic glance at his dripping clothes.
"Maurice Carewe," slowly repeating the full name as if to imprint it on her memory."You are English?"He said: "No; I am one of those dreadful Yankees you have possibly read about."Her teeth gleamed."Yes, I have heard of them.But you do not appear so very dreadful; though at present you are truly not at your best.What is this--this Yankeeland like?""It would take me ever so long to tell you about it, it is such a great country.""You are a patriot!" clapping her hands."No other country is so fine and large and great as your own.But tell me, is it as large as Austria?""Austria? You will not be offended if I tell you?""No."
"Well," with fun in his eyes, "it is my opinion that I could hide Austria in my country so thoroughly that nobody would ever be able to find it again." He wondered how she would accept this statement.
She lifted her chin and laughed, and the bulldog wagged his tail, as he always did when mirth touched her.He jumped up beside Maurice and looked into his face.Maurice patted his broad head, and he submitted.The girl looked rather surprised.
"Are you a magician?" she asked.
"Why?"
"Bull never makes friends."
