“Nay, nay, I cannot.”
“What! Will you stay to be this man’s wife?”
“No! Sooner death,” she cried. “He may not return.”
“He is on his way.”
“Oh, no, no,” she whispered, shuddering. “I could not be his wife. He may not come—a thousand things may happen. Oh, Gil, Gil, do not tempt me to do wrong.”
“Nay, nay, I’ll not tempt thee, sweet. ’Tis no temptation to say, ‘Be my wife.’ Is it so sad a fate?”
“Gil—husband—thy wife or death’s!” she sobbed, as she passionately kissed his sunburned face.
“Then you will come, sweet!” he cried. “Quick, thy cloak and hood.”
“Nay, Gil, dearest Gil, I cannot leave.”
“Mace!”