"
She slipped down from the manger edge and stood in front of him,
looking into his eyes--which were level with her own.
"You _are_ good to me," she half whispered, and smoothed his
cheek, then slipped down on the outspread coat, and murmured,
"Come; sit here by me, and we'll both get warm."
All night the rain dribbled, but no one came to drive them away
from the fire, and they dozed side by side, their hands close
and their garments steaming. Istra fell asleep, and her head
drooped on his shoulder. He straightened to bear its weight,
though his back twinged with stiffness, and there he sat
unmoving, through an hour of pain and happiness and confused
meditation, studying the curious background--the dark roof of
broken thatch, the age-corroded walls, the littered earthen
floor. His hand pressed lightly the clammy smoothness of the
wet khaki of her shoulder; his wet sleeve stuck to his arm, and
he wanted to pull it free. His eyes stung. But he sat tight,
while his mind ran round in circles, considering that he loved
Istra, and that he would not be entirely sorry when he was no
longer the slave to her moods; that this adventure was the
strangest and most romantic, also the most idiotic and useless,
in history.
Pages:
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227