That hair of a colour comparable only
to that of the sweet gale when that sweet plant is in its golden withy
or catkin stage in the month of May, and is clothed with catkins as with
a foliage of a deep shining red gold, that seems not a colour of earth
but rather one distilled from the sun itself. Nor was it the colour of
her eyes, the deep pure blue of the lungwort, that blue loveliness seen
in no other flower on earth. Rather it was the light from her eyes which
was like lightning that pierced and startled him; for that light, that
expression, was a living spirit looking through his eyes into the depths
of his soul, knowing all its strength and weakness, and in the same
instant resolving to make it her own and have dominion over it.
It was only when he had escaped from the power and magic of her
presence, when alone in his sleeping room, that reflection came to him
and the recollection of Edgar and of his mission. And there was dismay
in the thought. For the woman was his, part and parcel of his heart and
soul and life; for that was what her lightning glance had said to him,
and she could not be given to another. No, not to the king! Had any man,
any friend, ever been placed in so terrible a position? Honour? Loyalty?
To whichever side he inclined he could not escape the crime, the base
betrayal and abandonment! But loyalty to the king would be the greater
crime.
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