In a different sphere she
also was a star, with a host of worshippers even greater than his own.
The humility of her amazed him. She had, as it were, taken her fate
between her hands and laid it as an offering at his feet.
And so, on Rosa Mundi's night, he went to the great Pavilion, mingling
with the crowd, determined when her triumph was over, to seek her out.
There would be a good many seekers, he doubted not; but he was convinced
that she would not deny him an interview.
He secured a seat in the third row, avoiding almost by instinct any more
conspicuous position. He was early, and while he waited, the thought of
young Eric Baron came to him--the boy's eager-face, the adoration of his
eyes. He remembered how on that far-off night he had realized the
hopelessness of combating his love, how he had shrugged his shoulders
and relinquished the struggle. And the battle had been his even then--a
bitter victory more disastrous than defeat.
He put the memory from him and thought of Rosemary--the child with the
morning light in her eyes, the innocence of the morning in her soul. How
tenderly she had spoken of Rosa Mundi! How sweetly she had pleaded her
cause! With what amazing intuition had she understood! Something that
was greater than pity welled up within him.
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