"But why have they hung a blue cloth in front of it?"
"I expect that's in our honour too."
They took hands and trotted to the end of the orchard; and there, beyond
the hedge, ran a canal, and beyond the canal a wide flat country
stretched away to the sea,--a land dotted with windmills and cattle and
red-and-white houses with weathercocks,--a land, too, criss-crossed with
canals, whereon dozens of boats, and even some large ships, threaded
their way like dancers in and out of the groups of cattle, or sailed
past a house so closely as almost to poke a bowsprit through the front
door. The weather-cocks spun and glittered, the windmills waved their
arms, the boats bowed and curtseyed to the children. Never was such a
salutation. Even the blue cloth in the distance twinkled, and Ferdinand
saw at a glance that it was embroidered with silver.
But the finest flash of all came from a barge moored in the canal just
below them, where a middle-aged woman sat scouring a copper pan.
"Good-day!" cried Ferdinand across the hedge. "Why are you doing that?"
"Why, in honour of the wedding, to be sure. 'Must show one's best at
such times, if only for one's own satisfaction." Then, as he climbed
into view and helped Sophia over the hedge, she recognised them, and,
dropping her pan with a clatter, called on the saints to bless them and
keep them always. The bridal pair clambered down to the towpath, and
from the towpath to her cabin, where she fed them (for they were hungry
by this time) with bread and honey from a marvellous cupboard painted
all over with tulips: in short, they enjoyed themselves immensely.
"Only," said Ferdinand, "I wish they hadn't covered up the sea, for I
wanted a good look at it."
"The sea?" said the barge-woman, all of a shiver. Then she explained
that her two sons had been drowned in it. "Though, to be sure," said
she, "they died for your Majesty's honour, and, if God should give them
back to me, would do so again."
"For me?" exclaimed Sophia, opening her eyes very wide.
"Ay, to be sure, my dear. So it's no wonder--eh?--that I should love
you."
By the time they said good-bye to her and hurried back through the
orchard, a dew was gathering on the grass and a young moon had poised
herself above the apple-boughs. The birds here were silent; but high on
the stone terrace, when they reached it, a solitary one began to sing.
From the bright windows facing the terrace came the clatter of plates
and glasses, with loud outbursts of laughter. But this bird had chosen
his station beneath a dark window at the corner, and sang there unseen.
It was the nightingale.
They could not understand what he sang. "It is my window," whispered
Sophia, and began to weep in the darkness, without knowing why; for she
was not miserable in the least, but, on the contrary, very, very happy.
They listened, hand in hand, by a fountain on the terrace. Through the
windows they could see the Papal legate chatting at table with the King,
Sophia's father, and the Chancellor hobnobbing with the Cardinal
Archbishop. Only the Queen of Ysselmonde sat at the table with her
wrists on the arms of her throne and her eyes looking out into the
darkness, as though she caught some whisper of the bird's song. But the
children knew that he sang for them, not for her; for he told of all the
adventures of the day, and he told not as I am telling them, but so
beautifully that the heart ached to hear. Yet his song was of two words
only. "Young--young--young! Love love--love!"--the same words over and
over.
A courtier came staggering out from the banqueting-hall, and the bird
flew away. The children standing by the fountain watched him as he
found the water and dipped his face in it, with a groan. He was
exceedingly drunk; but as he lifted his head he caught sight of them in
the moonlight and excused himself.
"In your Highnesses' honour," he assured them: "'been doing my best."
"Poor man!" said Sophia. "But how loyal!"