" Then they came back together, and the princess, who had tact
enough when she cared to use it, soon put matters right again.

I started to tell one of my best stories in order to cheer Brandon,
but in the midst of it, Mary, who, I had noticed, was restless and
uneasy, full of blushes and hesitancy, and with a manner as new to her
as the dawn of the first day was to the awakening world, abruptly
asked Brandon to dance with her again. She had risen and was standing
by her chair, ready to be led out.

"Gladly," answered Brandon, as he sprang to her side and took her
hand. "Which shall it be, La Galliard or the new dance?" And Mary
standing there, the picture of waiting, willing modesty, lifted her
free hand to his shoulder, tried to raise her eyes to his, but
failed, and softly said: "The new dance."

This time the dancing was more soberly done, and when Mary stopped it
was with serious, thoughtful eyes, for she had felt the tingling of a
new strange force in Brandon's touch. A man, not a worm, but a real
man, with all the irresistible infinite attractions that a man may
have for a woman--the subtle drawing of the lodestone for the passive
iron--had come into her life. Doubly sweet it was to her intense,
young virgin soul, in that it first revealed the dawning of that
two-edged bliss which makes a heaven or a hell of earth--of earth,
which owes its very existence to love.

I do not mean that Mary was in love, but that she had met, and for the
first time felt the touch, yes even the subtle, unconscious,
dominating force so sweet to woman, of the man she could love, and had
known the rarest throb that pulses in that choicest of all God's
perfect handiwork--a woman's heart--the throb that goes before--the
John, the Baptist, as it were, of coming love.

It being after midnight, Mary filled two cups of wine, from each of
which she took a sip, and handed them to Brandon and me. She then paid
me the ten crowns, very soberly thanked us and said we were at liberty
to go.

The only words Brandon ever spoke concerning that evening were just as
we retired:

"Jesu! she is perfect. But you were wrong, Caskoden. I can still
thank God I am not in love with her. I would fall upon my sword if I
were."

I was upon the point of telling him she had never treated any other
man as she had treated him, but I thought best to leave it unsaid.
Trouble was apt to come of its own accord soon enough.

In truth, I may as well tell you, that