“Yes,” he said with a half-laugh, “you believed me false and trifling with Mistress Anne Beckley, whom I had saved from the annoyance offered by my men; and I, poor silly-pated fool, believed you to care for that coxcomb Sir Mark, whom, thank heaven, you saved from an unkindly blow. Yes, sweet, I have been a fool, a jealous, weak, but always loving fool. Forgive me, for I must go.”
“Forgive you, Gil? Will you forgive me my want of trust?”
“With all my heart, sweet; and now I must leave you. Mace, child, thou art my wife, or the wife of no man, come what may. If I stay from you it is because I would not anger thy father by these pitiful nightly visits. I love you too well, child, to come like this. Perhaps in a week or two I shall be away across the seas, where night and day your face will be my hope; Mace, your dear eyes will be the stars by which I steer. Good-bye, sweet, good-bye.”
He held her hand tightly in his, and it clung to his in return. Then placing his left hand on the heavy trellis, and a foot on the sill below her casement, he raised himself to a level with her face, and as he drew her to him lips touched lips for a brief moment, and then he lightly dropped back again, as a quick rustling noise, and a hasty exclamation, followed by steps, fell upon his ear.
“I must go,” he whispered, “for both our sakes. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Plain, homely words; but they meant much as spoken then.
Turning once more to gaze up at the window, Gil was walking rapidly the next moment towards the path, when a dark figure started up in his way.
End of Volume I.