“Ah!” Alaine sighed. There was a kindling up of the smouldering fire in the blue eyes which did not remove their gaze from her face. This young man was something different from the sombre Pierre or the bold François. The very difference pleased the girl; this calmness attracted her, and for an instant she allowed her hand to rest in the big fingers of the young Dutchman, then she withdrew it and repeated, “Adieu, monsieur; I must not stay.”
He only nodded in reply, still keeping his eyes fixed upon her.
“Shall I help you to get your horse?”
“No, I can get him.”
“Then—adieu, monsieur.”
She retreated a step; he followed her, that light in his eyes gathering strength and fascinating her so that a little grieving sigh she breathed as his arms enfolded her closer, closer, and his lips pressed hers. “Too sweet thou art for me to leave thee,” he murmured.
Trembling, half crying, her heart beating tumultuously, Alaine thrust him from her. “This is very wrong, monsieur. I should not—— Oh, what is it I have done?” The tears had their way, and she leaned against the side of the barn, hiding her face.
But again she felt those enfolding arms and kisses showered on her brow, her hair. “Thou dost not love me?” Lendert whispered.
“I must not, I must not.”
“But I love thee, so brave, so beautiful. Where would Lendert Verplanck be but for thee?”