A little while ago the sunshine had been on the river; now it was gone, and with it was gone the colour and the brightness of the overhanging rocks and sharp-cornered granite stones: the kingfisher's cave above the waterfall had deepened to a gloomy blue. But there is much to look at still, and much to listen to; this subdued colouring is grateful to an eye tired of the sunny glare, and flattering to a dreamy mood. Those dark-green pools where the water circles round and round so sleepily; those slanting stones down whose polished sides it slides in a sheet of smooth glass, to break at its base and curl away in frothy wavelets; those patches of milk-white foam clinging in stagnant repose to some drifted tree-branch, yet torn unmercifully by the shock of the passing current, – these are in themselves small pictures which together make a great one. And there is much to listen to, for there is no river more musical than the Djernis. Every drowned tree-carcass caught fast between two rocks is excuse enough for this spoilt child of the mountains to break into loud-murmured and most melodious complaint: over every marble block and every boulder-stone it will fret and foam and work itself into a frenzy of bubbles and froth. There are singing voices in the currents and phantom choruses in the whirling pools. And the more you listen the more you will hear. From the hollow of a cave there floats a melody, sweet and plaintive as though the water-spirits in there were touching the strings of their harps; the wavelets which lap against the rock are playing a rippling accompaniment, and in the strong, swift sweep of the current hurrying past, there rolls back a deep-toned reply. Where the water rushes headlong over a broken bed you could fancy a peal of silver bells; and there where it flings itself with a crash and a cloud of flying spray down the rock, you seem to hear the thunder of a mighty organ, played by invisible hands.
Silenced by the wildness of this varied orchestra, Gretchen stood and waited till her hat should be dry. Even Tolnay seemed to have realised that compliments, however gracefully turned, must lose some of their charm when shouted at the top of the voice.
Suddenly Gretchen became aware that an unknown parasol-handle was being protruded before her eyes, while. an unknown voice said deliberately –
"Mademoiselle, votre chapeau."
This was all that reached her ears. The fingers which grasped the ivory handle were stained yellow at the tips. Gretchen turned round, and found herself confronted by Princess Tryphosa.
Tolnay turned also, and for a moment doubted the evidence of his eyes. A long, low whistle would have been most expressive of his feelings at this moment, but he was too well-bred to attempt anything of the sort. He was a little dismayed, though the sensation was only transitory. He had never contemplated the possibility of these few yards of shingle being actually traversed by a Roumanian lady of high degree. It was a phenomenon perfectly unparalleled in his experience, and certainly it was calculated to awake some inconvenient thoughts as to the strength of motive which must exist.
Gretchen was scarcely less surprised, and it took a few seconds before she could understand what Princess Tryphosa's object was. She was offering her parasol. There
