He had drawn her close to his side, and she felt his breath on her hair as he continued to plead—
"Say it, Gwladys—only once—only to-night!"
Poor Gwladys! The glamour of the love she had thirsted for was upon her in all its fulness—was wrapping her in its folds. Its strength subdued her; she forgot her scruples, and stifled the whispers of her usually tender conscience, and, yielding to Ivor's pleadings and her own impulsive, passionate nature, let her lover draw from her the truth, which she had hitherto scarcely confessed to herself.
"Yes—yes; I have loved thee always."
"And will love me for ever?—whisper it, fanwylyd," said Ivor.
"No, I must not say that; but thou knowst it all. Oh! beth na'i, beth na'i?"
A step on the shingle disturbed them.
"Only Sianco fetching his crab-pots; but here is my boat. Let us go to Traeth-y-daran, where the sand is never trodden; there we shall be alone, for I tell thee, Gwladys, this night is mine and thine—nothing shall tear it from us!"
He drew the boat to the side of the rock and once again Gwladys and he were out together on the moonlit bay. It was so calm that nothing could be heard but the creaking of the oars in the rowlocks and the dripping of the water from the blades. Neither spoke until reaching Traeth-y-daran, the boat glided in between the rocks, and they landed on the shore which lay lonely and peaceful in a flood of moonlight.
"Here is a seat for thee, love, and one for me beside thee close. Oh, yes; I said this night was made for thee and me! For a few hours let us put everything else away from us, Gwladys, and talk and think and feel nothing—nothing but our love for each other. I will have it so!" he said almost fiercely. "To-night is for happiness—to-morrow is for—?. Tell me, lass, dost remember our last row on the bay?"