He sat down beside her and took her hand.
‘Do you know what your mother told me to say to you?’ he asked.
She shook her head expectantly, and her expression grew bright again.
‘She told me to tell you that I would be Sigmundskron to you in deed, and in heart, as well as in name—can I say more?’
‘But one thing more,’ she answered, as her arms went round him. ‘But one thing more—that you will be Greif, my Greif, the Greif I love, always and always, whether in my name or yours, until the end!’
As his own thoughts had dwindled before Frau von Sigmundskron’s earnest dignity, so that in turn grew dim and far away in the presence of Hilda’s love. All had been right in their own way, but Hilda’s speech was the best, and there was the most humanity in it, after all.
A long time they sat side by side in the sunlight, talking of each other and of themselves as lovers will, and must, if they would talk at all. As they were about to go down, Hilda stopped, just at the entrance of the turret, and swung the broken door gently on its creaking hinges.
‘You must not let your cousin hate me, Greif,’ she said, as though the thought troubled the cloudless joy of the future. ‘It would not be right. We must all be one, now and when we two are married. He saved your life by his care—why should he dislike me?’
‘He does not, dearest—you are mistaken,’ protested Greif, who was much embarrassed by the question. Hilda faced him at once, laying her hand upon his arm.
‘He does, and you must see it. Why does he never come here? Why is he so cold when we go to Greifenstein? I do not care a straw for his like or dislike, except because he is your cousin, and because I think we should all live harmoniously together. The strange thing is that he would give his life for you, and I am sure he is honest, though I cannot see into his eyes as I can into yours. What is the reason? You must know.’