"And wouldst thou be pained, Sweet?" He drew her close, his dark curls swept her face as he bent his head. Nor did he wait for an answer, but plied her with another question that the moment and the closeness gave license to. "Wilt give, Sweet, the nuptial kiss—'tis my due?" She raised her head from his shoulder ever so slightly to answer him, but the words came not, for his lips were upon hers. She was thrilled with his tenderness; 'twas more than she ever could have thought. And as he held her close, she, not unwilling, declared separation would be instant death. She wondered how she ever could have withstood love so long. And he kissed her again and again, saying heaven could not offer greater favour. "Dost feel happy now, Sweet?"
She answered not, but stood, her head leant against the rare and scented lace of his steenkirk, held captive, trembling with an ecstasy too sweet to be accounted for.
"Thou dost tremble, Kate; has thy fear not left thee yet?"
"Nay," came soft and breathless from her full red lips. "I am still afraid."
"But what dost thou fear now, so close wrapped?"
"I know not; 'tis a strange fear. If thou shouldst be taken from me, I should die; 'tis this I fear most of all, and even for a separation—nay, nay, I could not live."
"Oh, Sweet, 'tis excess of gladness that thou art wife—wife, the word alone fills me with rapturous exaltation. Wouldst be glad if we had never met thus, should separation come?"
"Nay, a thousand times, nay, these moments are worth more than all my life heretofore."
"Hast forgotten, I must leave the castle before very long, and an adieu must be said to thee?"
"I have not forgotten, but 'twill only be for a day. 'Twould be hazardous for thee to go until everything is quiet about."