“I would give my soul to the devil,” said Norman of Torn, “would it buy me the right to remain ever at the feet of Bertrade Montfort.”
He raised her hand to his lips in farewell as he started to speak, but something—was it an almost imperceptible pressure of her little fingers, a quickening of her breath or a swaying of her body toward him?—caused him to pause and raise his eyes to hers.
For an instant they stood thus, the eyes of the man sinking deep into the eyes of the maid, and then hers closed and with a little sigh that was half gasp, she swayed toward him, and the Devil of Torn folded the King’s niece in his mighty arms and his lips placed the seal of a great love upon those that were upturned to him.
The touch of those pure lips brought the man to himself.
“Ah, Bertrade, my Bertrade,” he cried, “what is this thing that I have done! Forgive me, and let the greatness and the purity of my love for you plead in extenuation of my act.”
She looked up into his face in surprise, and then placing her strong white hands upon his shoulders, she whispered:
“See, Roger, I am not angry. It is not wrong that we love; tell me it is not, Roger.”
“You must not say that you love me, Bertrade. I am a coward, a craven poltroon; but, God, how I love you.”
“But,” said the girl, “I do love—”
“Stop,” he cried, “not yet, not yet. Do not say it till I come again. You know nothing of me, you do not know even who I be; but when next I come, I promise that ye shall know as much of me as I myself know, and then, Bertrade, my Bertrade, if you can then say, ‘I love you’ no power on earth, or in heaven above, or hell below shall keep you from being mine!”