"You are going to fight," said she, "to fight with Sir Jasper. Oh, my God, you do not know, but it is because of me, and if you fight it will break my heart." She leant forward to look eagerly at him as he knelt. Her breath fanned his cheek. Through her mask he saw beautiful black eyes, deep, deep. How white the skin was upon her neck and chin—how fine its grain! What little wanton curls upon her head! What a fragrance of flowers in the air! How he longed to pluck that mask away—and yet how the very mystery lured him, held him!
"Who are you?" said he, in a low quick whisper. "Let me see your face."
She forbade his indiscreet hand with a little shriek.
"No, no, no, you must never see, never know; that would be terrible."
Then he placed both his hands, all unconsciously, upon hers, and then she caught them both and held them, and he felt that her weak grasp was to him as strong as iron.
"Why do you fight?" said she. "Tell me."
He blushed.
"'Tis for nothing, the merest misunderstanding. Sir Jasper is mad, I think."
"Sir Jasper is jealous," breathed she, and nearer came the gaze of the eyes. "Is it true that you love Lady Standish?"
"I?" cried he vehemently, and rapped out a great oath—so eager was he to deny. "I? No! God is my witness. No!"