Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. She was to be a Corsair’s Bride. She laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing. But only inside, you understand, that one cannot see it.
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