She bent over him, as he leaned against her, her soft hands slowly stroking his forehead with touch as light as the brushing of a rose-leaf. Nicanor stood it as long as he could. Then he crushed her hands in his, and kissed them passionately, many times, and rose to his feet.
"Dear little hands, that would cure all the pain and sorrow of the world an they might! They have healed me, sweet, and made me sane—ay, and wounded deeper than they healed! Go now, quickly, dear heart, while I have courage and will to say it."
"But—" she began, hesitating. He interrupted, fiercely.
"Go, child, go! Or I'll not give thee the chance again!"
"But thy head—" she persisted.
"It is cured," he answered. As she turned away, surprised at his sudden brusqueness, he took a step beside her.
"Hast heard that thy lord father will leave Britain for Rome?" he asked abruptly.
"Leave Britain? But it is not so!" she exclaimed. "Why should he do that? He would not leave without me, and I—I will not go. I will stay here; I will not go to Rome! And thou,—" she came closer to him,—"wilt thou come to-morrow and tell me tales? Last night I waited for thee, and when thou didst not come I was lonely. Do not let me be lonely again, I pray thee!"
Nicanor looked at her for a time.
"Ay," he said finally, in a hushed voice. "I will come."