"You make it so hard for me," she said pleadingly.
"Forgive me, sweetheart, but love will not be denied," he answered. "Let the King have Krovitch, and you come with me." His face was close to hers, his heart was slowly, strongly closing on her own fluttering heart.
She felt that, unless she could at once throw off the spell, in another minute she would be limply lying in his arms in complete surrender to his plea. For a long eternity it seemed that, strive as she would, she could not conquer herself. Then she sat erect; the victory was won.
"I cannot; I cannot," she replied tensely, the last modicum of will summoned to resist what he sought and she desired. "The King"—she began, bethinking her of her reason; "you know that he is not always prudent. Mine is a hot-headed though loyal people. I must be by to guide him—for Krovitch. But, ah, 'twill be with a heavy heart!"
He leaned across from his saddle. "I care not for Krovitch so much as you do. Tell me that you love me."
She turned away her face that the eye of the man might not see and be blinded by the white light of the woman's love which shone in her own countenance.
"Say it, Trusia," he urged; "say it for my soul's peace."
With a royal pride in the confession, she turned her head, meeting his regard with level eyes.
"I love you, Calvert," she responded simply.
Carrick was far behind. Though she struggled faintly, he drew her to him. Her face was turned up to his. Her eyes shone misty, dark and wonderful, like the reflection of stars on the shimmering waters of a lake. They illumined his soul. Her lips for the first time received a kiss from any lover. Then cheek to burning cheek, they passed the crest of a little hill and rode slowly down its thither side.