The rose of health, or, in many cases, of
repletion, sat enthroned upon their cheeks; on the upper lips of many the
moustaches were budding delicately. These were just getting up on the box
and gripping the reins for the great coach-drive. Little wonder if the
veins in their eager hands stood out. Little wonder if they flourished
the whip with an unnecessary vehemence. But for them, too, so far the
hours were only tripping, a slow and a dainty measure, a formal minuet.
And they were but watching. Only later would they rise up and join the
great dance of the hours, large, complicated, alluring, through whose
measures the feet of eventual saints have trod, whose music rings in the
ears of many who, long after, try to pray and to forget. Some who were
with women made conversation jocosely, putting on travesties of military
airs, and a knowingness of expression that might have put the wisdom of
the Sphinx to shame. Nor did they hesitate to appear amorous in the
public eye. On the contrary, their attitudes of attention were purposely
assumed silently to utter volumes. They lay, to all intents and purposes,
at the feet of their houris, as Samson lay shorn at the feet of Delilah.
In loud young voices they told the secrets of their hearts, until even
the clash of the music could scarcely keep them hidden.
Pages:
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287