“Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter death must be.
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
Oh, love, if death be sweeter, let me die!
“Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay—
I know not which is sweeter—no, not I.”
“It is too sad!” cried Margery, with forced lightness; the misery of her own lost love was almost choking her.
“It is very beautiful,” said some one standing in the doorway.
Margery rose quickly, and her eyes rested on the figure of a tall, well-built man, with a keen, dark face, a tawny-brown mustache hiding the mouth, and eyes of such liquid beauty that not even the long scar on the forehead could mar them.
Lady Enid uttered a cry of delight.