He no longer mused merely on his own voice and wit:
he called up her tones of thrilling power; he imagined her in all the
triumph of her gay repartee. In his mind's eye, he clearly watched all
the graces of her existence. She moved, she gazed, she smiled. Now he
was alone, and walking with her in some rich wood, sequestered,
warm, solemn, dim, feeding on the music of her voice, and gazing with
intenseness on the wakening passion of her devoted eye. Now they rode
together, scudded over champaign, galloped down hills, scampered through
valleys, all life, and gaiety, and vivacity, and spirit. Now they were
in courts and crowds; and he led her with pride to the proudest kings.
He covered her with jewels; but the world thought her brighter than his
gems. Now they met in the most unexpected and improbable manner: now
they parted with a tenderness which subdued their souls even more than
rapture. Now he saved her life: now she blessed his existence. Now his
reverie was too vague and misty to define its subject. It was a stream
of passion, joy, sweet voices, tender tones, exulting hopes, beaming
faces, chaste embraces, immortal transports!
It was three o'clock, and for the twentieth time our hero made an effort
to recall himself to the realities of life.
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