She caught one of his hands in both of her own and held it to her heart. "That is mine."
There was a silence rich with meaning. The stream, the whispering boughs, the rising breeze in the tree-tops joined in the soft chorus of their nuptial-song. The night fell, shrouded in mystery. Behind them over their shoulders a new moon rose, a harbinger of good fortune, but they did not turn to look at it. It could not foretell them a fortune that was already theirs. Its light flowed through the shadows, paling the silhouette of the leaves against the afterglow, bathing them both in liquid silver. He told her many of the things that she already knew, but each reiteration had a new meaning and a new delight. The same immortal questions and answers, ever new, ever mystifying. The touch of hands, of eyes, the physical contact, outward tokens of the spiritual pact made already, the welding of the bonds which were to make them one! The moments of their more intimate confessions past, he told her of the friendship of Mrs. Hammond and what she had done to set the story right, but she did not seem to hear him. Her gaze was upon the pale rim of light along the hill-top beyond, a gaze which looked and saw nothing beyond the rosy aura of her thoughts.
"What does it matter now?" she murmured. "What does anything matter—after this?"
"You will marry me—soon?" he urged her.
She sighed softly and laid her hand in his.
"Whenever you want me to," she said, with eloquent simplicity.
"To-morrow?"
She smiled mischievously.
"I must, I think, Philidor. Would you have me compromised?"
He laughed happily.