Then she sank into her chair, spreading her trembling hands upon the carven manes of the lions.
The Knight, still silent, folded his arms across his breast.
Thus for a space they gazed on one another—these two, who had parted, eight years before, with clinging lips and straining arms, a deep, pure passion of love surging within them; a union of heart, made closer by the wrench of outward separation.
The Knight looked at the lips of the noble woman before him; and as he looked those firm lips quivered, trembled, parted——
Then—the years rolled back——
* * * * * *
It was moonlight on the battlements. The horses champed in the courtyard below. They two had climbed to the topmost turret, that they might part as near the stars as possible, and that, unseen by others, she might watch him ride away.
How radiant she looked, in her robe of sapphire velvet, jewels at her breast and girdle, a mantle of ermine hanging from her shoulders. But brighter than any jewels were the eyes full of love and tears; and softer than softest velvet, the beautiful hair which, covered her, as with a golden veil. Standing with his arms around her, it flowed over his hands. Silent he stood, looking deep into her eyes.
Below they could hear Martin Goodfellow calling to the men-at-arms.
Her lips being free, she spoke.