tured shields and lions on the walls; women ran to him delightedly, men left their ploughs afar off and came, eager and bareheaded, to see if there was any chance to serve him; he was their prince, their lord, their idol, their best friend; as their fathers had followed his to the death, so would they have followed him. Half a dozen flew to do each word of his bidding; brought in the horse, brought out an oaken settle for her in the sun, brought fresh water from the spring, fresh lemons from the tree, fresh violets from the hedges. At a sign from him one of the shepherd-boys, who was famous for his singing, came and stood before them, and sang to his guitar some of the love-songs of the province in a sweet tenor voice, liquid as the singing of nightingales. The green and gracious country was around, the low sun made the skies of the west radiant, the smell of the woods and fields rose fresh from the earth. She drank the draught he made for her, and listened to the singing, and watched the simple pastoral, old-world life around her, and felt her heart thrill as she met the amorous worship of his eyes.
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IN A WINTER CITY.
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