She bent her head as she sung the last few words, and there was silence between them—silence unbroken save for the ripple of the waters as it washed past the boat, and the song of a lark that soared high in the sky.
"Leone," said Lord Chandos, "you have killed me. I thought I had a stronger, braver heart, I thought I had a stronger nature—you have killed me."
He looked quite exhausted, and she saw great lines of pain round his mouth, great shadows in his eyes.
"Have I been cruel to you?" she asked, and there was a ring of tenderness in her voice.
"More cruel than you know," he answered. "Once, Leone, soon after I came home we went to a concert, and among other things I heard 'In Sheltered Vale.' At the first sound of the first notes my heart stood still. I thought, Leone, it would never beat again; I thought my blood was frozen in my veins; I felt the color die from my face. Lady Marion asked me what was the matter, and the countess thought that I was going to swoon. I staggered out of the room like a man who had drunk too much wine, and it was many hours before I recovered myself; and now, Leone, you sing the same words to me; they are like a death knell."
"They hold a prophecy," said Leone, sadly, "the only place where any one can find rest is the grave."
"My beautiful Leone," he cried, "you must not talk about the grave. There should be no death and no grave for one like you."
"There will be none to my love," she said, but rather to herself than to him. Then she roused herself and laughed, but the laugh was forced and bitter. "Why should I speak of my love?" she said. "Mine was a 'Mad Love.'"
The day drifted on to a golden, sunlight afternoon, and the wind died on the waters while the lilies slept. And then they went slowly home.
"Has it been a happy day, Leone?" asked Lord Chandos, as they drew near home.