Then
I saw Sinfi suddenly and excitedly point to the sky over the rock
beneath which we sat. I looked up. The upper sky above us was now
clear of morning mist, and right over our heads, Winifred's and mine,
there hung a little morning cloud like a feather of flickering rosy
gold. I looked again towards the corner of jutting rock, but Sinfi's
head had disappeared.
'Dear Prince,' said Winifred, 'how delightfully warm you are! How
kind of you! But are not your arms a little too tight, dear Prince?
Poor Winnie cannot breathe. And this thump, thump, thump, like
a--like a--fire-engine--_ah_!'
Too late I knew what my folly had done. The turbulent action of my
heart had had a sympathetic effect upon hers. It seemed as if her
senses, if not her mind, had remembered another occasion, when, as
she was lying in my arms, the beating of my heart had disturbed her.
In one lightning-flash her real life and all its tragedy broke
mercilessly in upon her. The idea of the 'Prince of the Mist' fled.
She started up and away from me. The awful mimicry of her father's
expression spread over her face.
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