She stepped forward to gaze at the fall. He, with
an exclamation of alarm, caught her hand and held it.
'You are too rash,' he said in a thick voice. 'The depth, the roar
of the waters, will daze you.'
Against his burning palm, her hand was cool as a lily leaf. He did
not release it, though he knew that _his_ peril from that maidenly
touch was greater far than hers from the gulf before them.
Veranilda, accepting his protection with the thoughtlessness of a
child, leaned forward, uttering her wonder and her admiration. He,
the while, watched her lips, fed his eyes upon her cheek, her neck,
the golden ripples of her hair. At length she gently offered to draw
her hand away. A frenzy urged him to resist, but madness yielded to
cunning, and he released her.
'Of course Basil has been here,' she was saying.
'Never.'
'Never? Oh, the joy of showing him this when he comes! Lord Marcian,
you do not think it will be long?'
Her eyes seemed as though they would read in the depth of his; again
the look of troubled wonder rose to her countenance.
'It will not be more than a few days?' she added, in a timid
undertone, scarce audible upon the water's deeper note.
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