She turned away, and if I ever saw a tear there was one trembling in her eyelashes.
"'Twas three full weeks ago," she said. "And it was not in the wood field—'twas in the wine cellar. Never tell me you do not remember; I—I could never—ah, Mother of Sorrows! that would be worse than all."
Here was a curious coil, but I could break one strand of it, at least, and so I did.
"I remember well enough," I hastened to say. "But being here, and seeing you there in the great chair, carried me back to that other time, making all the interval stand as a dream. Have I been ailing?"
"You have been terribly near to death, Monsieur John; so near that Doctor Carew has twice given you over."
"No," said I; "there was no fear of that. I am like that man in the old German folk tale who made a compact with the Evil One, selling thereby his chance to die. Death would not take me as a gift, Mistress Margery; I have tried him too often."
"Hush!" she said; "'tis an ill thing to jest about. Why should you want to die?"
"Rather ask why I should choose to live. But this is beside the mark. You should have let me die, dear lady; but since you did not, we must e'en make the best of it."
She faced me with a smile that struggled with some deeper stirring of the heart; I knew not what.
"'Tis a monstrous doleful alternative, n'est-ce pas? And I must not let you talk of doleful things; indeed, I must not let you talk at all—'tis Doctor Carew's order."