Lynborough sank again upon his knee and paid his homage. As he rose, she bent ever so slightly toward him; delicately he kissed her cheek.
"I pray you," she whispered, "use gently what you took with that."
"Here's a heart to my heart, and a spirit to my spirit—and a glad venture to us both!"
"Come on to the lawn now, but tell them nothing."
"Save that I have paid my homage, and received the recognition of my right?"
"That, if you will—and that your path is to be—henceforward—Helena's."
"I hope to have no need to travel far on the Feast of St. John!" cried Lynborough.
They went out on the lawn. Nothing was asked, and nothing told, that day. In truth there appeared to be no need. For it seems as though Love were not always invisible, nor the twang of his bow so faint as to elude the ear. With joyous blood his glad wounds are red, and who will may tell the sufferers. Sympathy too lends insight; your fellow-sufferer knows your plight first. There were fellow-sufferers on the lawn that day—to whom, as to all good lovers, here's Godspeed.
She went with him in the afternoon through the gardens, over the sunk fence, across the meadows, till they came to the path. On it they walked together.
"So is your right recognized, my lord," she said.