Seeing that, and feeling tired of the conversation, Basil followed her.
She was leaning over the stone balustrade, and the green foliage
wreathed round the balcony formed a beautiful frame-work for a lovely
picture. He went up to her, and stood in silence by her side.
"How different these two worlds are!" she said. "The world in there, all
heat, noise and frivolity; the world out here, so calm, so grand and
still. Look at the shadow of the trees in the water! Look at the
floating clouds of rose-colored light in the sky!"
But he thought nothing in that outside world so beautiful as she
herself.
"Are you found of German stories?" he asked her, suddenly.
"Yes, some of them. I like the mystery and the spirituality, the poetry
and the romance."
"I read a book of Fouque's last night that charmed me--Minstrel Love. Do
you know it, Lady Amelie?"
"No," she replied; "tell me what it is."
"Only the history of a poet-knight who loved the lofty Lady Alcarda. She
lived with her husband, a German warrior, in an old castle, and the poet
was her knight.
"Do you know, Lady Amelie," he whispered, "that book made me ambitious?"
"Of what?" she asked.
"Dare I tell you? The Lady Alcarda was beautiful, gifted, pure of heart
and soul, lofty and spiritual--like you," he added, passionately, "and
she accepted the poet's service--she made him her knight."
"There are no knights in these days," she said, half sadly.
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