The curtain of the doorway was lifted and she stood on the threshold, all in white, fronting the moon.
"Will my lord come into his house?"
Her voice thrilled down to him. . . . Then she remembered that he stood there shoeless; and, giving a little cry, would have run barefoot down the moonlit rocky steps, preventing him.
But he had sprung to his unshod feet, and with a cry rushed up to her, disregarding the thorns.
She sank, crossing her arms as a slave—in homage, or, it may be, to protect her maiden breasts.
"No, no—" she murmured, sliding low within his arms. "Look first around, if our house be worthy!"
But he caught her up, and lifting her, crushing her body to his, carried her into the hut.
Chapter VII.
HOUSEKEEPING.
She awoke at daybreak to the twittering of birds. Raising herself little by little, she bent over him, studying the face of her beloved. He slept on; and after a while she slipped from the couch, collected her garments in a bundle, tiptoed to the door, and lifting its curtain, stole out to the dawn.