"God knows I love her; but what's the use? We can not all have
what we want; let us make the best of what we have. Philosophy
is a comfort only to old age. Why should youth bother to reason
why? And I--I have not yet outgrown youth. I believed I had, but
I have not. I did not dream she existed, and now she is more to
me than anything else in the world. Why; I wonder why? I look
into a pair of brown eyes, and am seized with madness. I hope.
For what? O, Bucephalus! let us try to wake and leave the dream
behind. The gratitude of a princess and a dog . . . and for this
a rose. Well, it will prove the substance of many a pipe, many a
kindly pipe. You miss a good deal, Bucephalus; smoking is an
evil habit only to those who have not learned to smoke."
The animal replied with a low whinney, and Maurice, believing
that the horse had given an ear to his monologue, laughed. But
he flattered himself. The horse whinneyed because he inhaled the
faint odor of his kind. He drew down on the rein and settled
into a swinging trot, which to Maurice's surprise was faster and
easier than the canter. They covered a mile this way, when
Maurice's roving eye discovered moving shadows, perhaps half a
mile in advance.
Pages:
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367