'Sha't not cry, dear dove,' he mumbled. 'Sha't go with me to Paris.'
She sighed:
'No, no. Bide here,' and passed her hand through his ruffled hair.
'I would slay thee an thou were false to me,' he whispered over her hand. 'Get thee with me.'
She said, 'No, no,' again in a stifled voice.
He cried urgently:
'Come! Come! By all our pacts. By all our secret vows.'
She shook her head, sobbing:
'Poor fool. Poor fool. I am very lonely.'
He clutched her tightly and whispered in a hoarse voice: