The young man hesitated one moment, then turned and looked the other glowingly in the eyes.
‘Joan Medley,’ he said.
‘Joan Medley!’ repeated Raleigh, and struck his breast: ‘There it lies shrined.’
‘You know her—have heard of her, perchance?’ asked Brion, the blood flushing his skin now that the murder was out. But the soldier shook his head.
‘Is she of this side? My home is Fardel in Cornwood, east of Plymouth; and even so I am but late returned to it, having been long in France and the Low Countries.’
And then Brion told him all his secret, for what was the use to withhold the rest, when he had confessed so much. And as he spoke, the glamour of that sweet time returned upon him, so that his voice grew husky with passion and grief, and the recognition of that loss which could never now be made good.
‘Nay,’ said his comforter at the end: ‘never’s no word for love. A City knight, and I for London! I’ll get you news of her—contrive you meet again. She’s not forgot thee—take my word on’t. That face would linger in a maiden’s heart. Be of best cheer. Shalt hear from me within the month.’
His bright confidence had its effect upon the lover. Hope, like a blown-on-spark, began to glow and travel in his breast again. But still he shook his head:—
‘What an he hath forced her to wed where she abhorred?’
‘What an he hath not?’ was the answer. ‘I detect a touch of self-will in your lady. She would have her way on occasion. And she a spoilt and only child. Come, brave heart! We’ll pledge a silent toast to your re-meeting, at table this night.’