“Not here,” she said, and in silence led the way to a pleached alley out of sight of the windows. There they stood still. It was a strange meeting of two who had not seen each other for fourteen years, when the one was a tall, ungainly youth, the other well-nigh a child. And now Giles was a fine, soldierly man in the prime of life, with a short, curled beard, and powerful, alert bearing, and Aldonza, though the first flower of her youth had gone by, yet, having lived a sheltered and far from toilsome life, was a really beautiful woman, gracefully proportioned, and with the delicate features and clear olive skin of the Andalusian Moor. Her eyes, always her finest feature, were sunken with weeping, but their soft beauty could still be seen. Giles threw himself on his knee and grasped at her hand.
“My love!—my only love!” he cried.
“Oh! how can I think of such matters now—now, when it is thus with my dear mistress,” said Aldonza, in a mournful voice, as though her tears were all spent—yet not withholding her hand.
“You knew me before you knew her,” said Giles. “See, Aldonza, what I have brought back to you.”
And he half drew the sword her father had made. She gave a gasp of delight, for well she knew every device in the gold inlaying of the blade, and she looked at Giles with eyes fall of gratitude.
“I knew thou wouldst own me,” said Giles. “I have fought and gone far from thee, Aldonza. Canst not spare one word for thine old Giles?”
“Ah, Giles—there is one thing which if you will do for my mistress, I would be yours from—from my heart of hearts.”
“Say it, sweetheart, and it is done.”
“You know not. It is perilous, and may be many would quail. Yet it may be less perilous for you than for one who is better known.”
“Peril and I are well acquainted, my heart.” She lowered her voice as her eyes dilated, and she laid her hand on his arm. “Thou wottest what is on London Bridge gates?”