Ralph could not speak for a moment or two. He crossed the room, and taking the hand of his cousin, which she held out to him, he bent down and pressed it to his lips. The action recalled that happiest moment of his life, when in the hall of Carisbrooke he had received the prize of the tourney amid the congratulations of that gay assembly, of which scarce a man was left alive.
The recollection was too much.
They neither of them spoke for some minutes.
When Ralph had mastered his emotion, he began to talk to his cousin, he hardly knew what; but he felt confused, excited. Her very appearance shocked him. So much had Yolande altered since last she bid good-bye to that gallant band who had so joyously gone forth to seek name and fame and fortune in the sunny land of France.
Her lovely complexion was still there. Her eyes were larger and more meltingly blue, but her cheeks were thinner, and her youthful bloom and freshness were gone. Her lips had lost their fullness, and her figure its bewitching softness. Suffering and grief were in her face and in her deep black dress.
As the young moon rose over the russet oaks, and the still landscape made its subtle beauty felt, Yolande, who had hitherto said nothing, but let Ralph babble on, whispered quietly, "Tell me."
Ralph knew well what she meant. He told her all, even the words he heard the Captain of the Wight say as he lay dying on the battlefield.
Yolande listened. She made no sound. When he had finished, she simply said, "Where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but we are as the angels of God in heaven. Yea, I knew it could never be. How nobly he died--" and then she remained silent for a while.
Ralph said nothing. Presently he said in a low, half-timid tone,--
"Yolande, thou art not vexed with me? I tried to do my duty. I would willingly have died so he could have lived."