We may want you to get us ready for a mastodon
hunt."
"Yes, sir," said Rollo with simplicity, "I'll be back quite some
time before tea-time, sir."
St. George was smiling as they went down the corridor. He had been
vain of his love that, in Yaque as in America, remained the thing it
was, supreme and vital. But had not the simplicity of Rollo taken
the leap in experience, and likewise without changing? For a moment,
as he went down the silent corridors, lofty as the woods, vocal with
faint inscriptions on the uncovered stone, the old human doubt
assailed him. The very age of the walls was a protest against the
assumption that there is a touchstone that is ageless. Even if there
is, even if love is unchanging, the very temper of unconcern of his
valet might be quite as persistent as love itself. But the gallery
emptying itself into a great court open to the blue among graven
rafters, St. George promptly threw his doubt to the fresh,
heaven-kissing wind that smote their faces, and against mystery and
argument and age alike he matched only the happy clamour of his
blood.
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