language fluently,
though with a foreign accent. The ice once broken their talk rippled on,
as is the wont of light words, brightly uttered. Jean drank in each
gentle phrase, watched every graceful gesture; his heart bounded when
she carelessly smiled. But he lost not his daring: when the musicians
again struck up he boldly asked her to join in the dance.

She was not offended, her look showed no displeasure, but she refused;
he renewed his request; suddenly a change came over her face, she looked
rapidly round as though searching for some one who was not present, a
flash came into her eyes, she sprang to her feet. "Why should I not
dance!" she said; "they are merry, why should I alone be sad!" She let
him lead her into the ring. If she had been enchanting when seated, what
was her power when she moved! She was a model of grace and loveliness;
the contrast of her colouring to that of her neighbours inspired the
superstitious with some terror, but made the braver spirits gaze more
curiously, indifferent to the half-concealed anger and affected disdain
of their partners. Every moment she gained more hearts, though she let
her eyes rest only on those of Jean. After the dance was over she seated
herself in her former position; the women then, according to custom,
retired outside the stone circle, while the men clustered round the oak
to award the prize. The ceremony had up to this day been looked on as a
pure formality: for the last two summers the wreath had been by common
consent placed on the brows of Suzanne Falla, and none who woke that
morning had doubted that it would rest there again before night. But now
the men's heads were turned; there was commotion both outside and inside
the circle; then a hush, as the old men rose in their places and the
young men formed a lane to the tree. Jean stepped out, and taking the
stranger by the hand, led her to where a white-haired veteran stood with
the wreath in his hand. The next moment it was placed on her brows, and
then all voices burst into a song of triumph, which rang to the remotest
glades of the forest. Suzanne did not join in the song; her little heart
was breaking; all the passion of her hot nature was roused; she felt
herself unfairly, unjustly, treated; insulted on the very day that was
to have crowned her pride. She could not control herself, nor could she
accept her defeat: she stamped her foot on the ground, and poured out a
torrent of objurgation, accusing Jean of