.

"I--I have been afraid."

"Of what?"

"I do not know. It is the Tzigane in my blood which reads into the
future----"

She paused and he laughed gayly.

"Because I am a foreigner----"

"I have not always loved the English. I have thought them cold,
different from my people."

He kissed her again.

"And I could let you believe me that!"

She laughed. "Oh, no.... But you have shown me enough." And, pushing him
gently away, "I am convinced, _mon ami_...."

"As if you couldn't have read it in my eyes----"

"Alas! One reads--and one runs----"

"You couldn't escape me. It was written."

"Yes," she said dreamily, "I believe that now." And then, "But if
anything should come between us----"

"What, Marishka?" he smiled.

"I don't know. I have always thought that love would not come to me
without bitterness."

"What bitterness, _liebchen_?"

She settled softly closer to him and shrugged lightly. "How should I
know?"

He smiled at her proudly and caught her brown hand to his lips.

"You are dyed in the illusions of your race,--mystery--fatalism. They
become you well. But here among the roses of Konopisht there is no room
in my heart or yours for anything but happiness. See how they nod to
each other in the sunlight, Marishka. Like us, they love and are loved.
June comes to Bohemia but once a year--or to us. Let us bloom in the
sunlight like them--happy--happy----"

"Blood red, the roses," she said pensively. "The white ones please me
better. But they are so few. The Archduke likes the red ones best. What
is the verse?

"I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled."

"What matter Caesar or Kaiser to us, Marishka? Our own kingdom----"

"Yes, yes," she sighed. "And I am happy in it. You know it, _nicht
wahr_?"

Silence, except for the drowsy hum of the bees and the songs of the
birds. No fatalism is long proof against the call of love and June.
Marishka was content that her flight had ended in capture and sat
dreamily gazing at the white clouds floating overhead while she listened
to the voice at her ear, replying to it in monosyllables, the language
of acquiescence and content. The moments passed. Konopisht was no longer
a garden. Enchanted their bower and even the red roses forgotten.

Suddenly the girl started upright to her knees, and peered wide-eyed
through an opening in the foliage.

"What is it, Marishka?"

She put a finger to her lips in