The Palace of Dust
of a bewildering witchery. Her lips, half parted in her welcoming smile, flamed amazingly scarlet upon her intense pallor. And as for her eyes—even the florid Celtic imagery of O'Rourke's imagination had now no words to phrase their magnificence. He might but stand and look and rejoice in the seemingly aimless succession of events that had brought him into her presence, there to worship.
They were quite alone, he saw; his breath came hot and fast, his temples throbbed with the knowledge. He put his hand to his eyes, as if to shield them—in truth, to hide the look he knew had come into them.
"Pardon, madame," he stammered awkwardly.
She seemed puzzled. "The light, monsieur?" she asked, smiling.
"No, madame." He withdrew his hand and came a pace nearer to her; his gaze became steady, but his voice trembled. "No, madame; 'tis not the lights—not the lights, madame, that— Shall I be telling ye what it is that blinds me?"
It was impossible to misread the man's attitude. Her lashes lowered before his ardent gaze. She laughed a trifle nervously, and, "Not now, monsieur," she begged him hurriedly; "not now."
"Not now? D'ye mean that, a bit later, perhaps, ye will permit me to tell ye what is burning in me heart—"
But she checked him with an imperious gesture. "Monsieur!" she insisted, softening the rebuke with a dazzling smile. "Can you not wait?"
"Wait? Faith, not for long! Tis not in me to be waiting, when me—"
"This is not the time," she pronounced severely, "for—for folly, mon colonel. We have weightier business to pass upon."
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