He laughed.
“I call that your war-cry,” he replied, amused.
“Why!” she cried, amused and really wondering.
“Your insistence—Your war-cry—“A Brangwen, A Brangwen”—an old battle-cry. Yours is, ‘Do you love me? Yield knave, or die.’”
“No,” she said, pleading, “not like that. Not like that. But I must know that you love me, mustn’t I?”
“Well then, know it and have done with it.”
“But do you?”
“Yes, I do. I love you, and I know it’s final. It is final, so why say any more about it.”
She was silent for some moments, in delight and doubt.
“Are you sure?” she said, nestling happily near to him.