CHAPTER X


June was upon Italy, as a gossamer veil and a garland on the brow of a
girl bride. The first sweet hay was drying in Tuscan valleys; the fig
leaves were spreading, and shadowing the watery fruit that begins to
grow upon the crooked twigs before the leaves themselves, and which the
people call "fig-blossoms," because the real figs come later; the fresh
and silvery olive shoots had shed a snow-flurry of small white stars;
the yellow holy thorn still blossomed in the rough places of the hills,
and the blending of many wild flowers was like a maiden blush on the
earth's soft bosom.

At early morning Gilbert rode along the crest of a low and grassy hill
that was still sheltered from the sun by the high mountains to
eastward, and he drank in the cool and scented air as if it had been
water of paradise, and he a man saved out of death to life by the
draught. There was much peace in his heart, and a still security that
he had not felt yet since he had seen his father lying dead before him.
He knew not how it was, but he was suddenly sure that Beatrix loved him
and had escaped to the court of France in the hope of finding him, and
was waiting for him day by day. And he was also sure that the Church
would not cut him off from her in the end, let the churchmen say what
they would. Was not the Queen of France his friend? She would plead his
case, and the Pope would understand and take away the bar. He thought
of these things, and he felt his hopes rising bright, like the steady
sun.