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"Not my king's," returned Wood. She fixed her brilliant eyes upon him. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. ” But she could not talk freely about love, she found, for all that manumission. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous.
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