The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. For Melusine was on him again, the point of her sword lunging so that he backed up onto the dais. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other.
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