“But there is nothing to fasten it there.”
“Oh dear me, I must get some string, or silk, or—Oh,” she cried, struck with a sudden thought, “have you a knife?”
“No.”
“Then lend me your sword.”
“What! are you going to cut my head off for overlooking your Bona Dea ceremonies?” he said laughingly, drawing the keen weapon from its sheath.
For answer, she arose to her feet, and shook the loose gold of her hair over her shoulders. Carefully selecting one long tress, she smoothed it down with her hands, and held it out towards her lover.
“Cut it off.”
“What! your beautiful hair!” cried Maurice, who stood before her with his sword gleaming in the moonlight. “Oh, Helena, I could not do that.”
“Then give me your sword, and I’ll do it myself.”
“My dearest, you would hurt yourself. Why do you want to cut this lock?”