She was glad of the air too.
She turned a little in Vardri's arms, lifting her face to the soft
night wind. The coolness and the dark were like the touch of a
soothing hand.
The branches of the tree under which they stood rustled softly, and the
undergrowth stirred with the startled movements of some awakened bird
or small animal.
A bat flew past, almost brushing them with its velvet wings. From the
marsh lands below the dangerous white mist hovered like a fairy veil.
"I love the night," Arithelli whispered. "It makes me want to do all
sorts of things. Do you remember the story of Marguerite of France,
who heard the gypsies singing under her window and leant out and called
to them to take her away. I feel like that. Do you understand?"
Vardri drew her closer. "I know, my heart. Tell me more."
"There were some gypsies singing under my window this morning,"
Arithelli went on. "I wished I could have gone out and followed them
'over the hills and far away' like the children in the old rhymes. The
Irish and Jewish people have always been wanderers.
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