86 Lily and Water-Lily. -

 

“Yes, thou art very proud of thy pretty lover, with
his golden curls and his milk-white skin,” cried a bold,
buxom maid, who stood with her companions beside
the shady village well; “but I can tell thee I would
not give a kiss for a man who is so fearsome of his
handsome face and limbs that he shrinks from a
precipice rather than save one of his herd from
disaster.”

There was a roar of laughter, and all eyes were
turned towards a tall and slender maiden who stood
erect beneath the walnut tree, waiting until her
copper pitcher was filled at the slowly trickling
fount.

“Michael d’Orsiguet is naught to me,” said she,
proudly, and her short upper lip curled and her deep
grey eyes looked straight at the unwary speaker.

“Oh, hark! Michael is naught to Salome!” echoed
another damsel, scoffingly. “And yet who else
dances with her on the green at fairs? who else brings
her posies from the Alps? With whom else does
she sing in the rzoxzda? and who is it who carols