Short as the space was during which
the procession again completed a third perambulation of the
chapel, it seemed an eternity to Kenneth. At length the form
which he had watched with such devoted attention drew nigh.
There was no difference betwixt that shrouded figure and the
others, with whom it moved in concert and in unison, until, just
as she passed for the third time the kneeling Crusader, a part of
a little and well-proportioned hand, so beautifully formed as to
give the highest idea of the perfect proportions of the form to
which it belonged, stole through the folds of the gauze, like a
moonbeam through the fleecy cloud of a summer night, and again a
rosebud lay at the feet of the Knight of the Leopard.
This second intimation could not be accidental---it could not be
fortuitous, the resemblance of that half-seen but beautiful
female hand with one which his lips had once touched, and, while
they touched it, had internally sworn allegiance to the lovely
owner. Had further proof been wanting, there was the glimmer of
that matchless ruby ring on that snow-white finger, whose
invaluable worth Kenneth would yet have prized less than the
slightest sign which that finger could have made; and, veiled
too, as she was, he might see, by chance or by favour, a stray
curl of the dark tresses, each hair of which was dearer to him a
hundred times than a chain of massive gold.
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