Lord of the land and the deep!”
The song stilled at last. It died away in the roar of the surf, in the happy cries of foolish women and the laughter of men back from a dangerous adventure. As the seigneur’s boat was drawn up the shore Angèle threw herself into the arms of Michel de la Forêt, the soldier dressed as a priest.
Lemprière of Rozel stood abashed before this rich display of feeling. In his hottest youth he could not have made such passionate motions of affection. His feelings ran neither high nor broad, but neither did they run low and muddy. His nature was a straight level of sensibility—a rough stream between high banks of prejudice, topped with the foam of vanity, now brawling in season, and now going steady and strong to the sea. Angèle had come to feel what he was beneath the surface. She felt how unimaginative he was, and how his humor, which was but the horse-play of vanity, helped him little to understand the world or himself. His vanity was ridiculous, his self-importance was against knowledge or wisdom; and Heaven had given him a small brain, a big and noble heart, a pedigree back to Rollo, and the absurd pride of a little lord in a little land. Angèle knew all this, but realized also that he had offered her all he was able to offer to any woman.
She went now and put out both hands to him. “I shall ever pray God’s blessing on the Lord of Rozel,” she said, in a low voice.
“’Twould fit me no better than St. Ouen’s sword fits his fingers. I’ll take thine own benison, lady—but on my cheek, not on my hand as this day before at four of the clock.” His big voice lowered. “Come, come, the hand thou kissed, it hath been the hand of a friend to thee, as Raoul Lemprière of Rozel said he’d be. Thy lips upon his cheek, though it be but a rough fellow’s fancy, and I warrant, come good, come ill, Rozel’s face will never be turned from thee. Pooh, pooh! let yon soldier-priest shut his eyes a minute; this is ‘tween me and thee; and what’s done before the world’s without shame.”
He stopped short, his black eyes blazing with honest mirth and kindness, his breath short, having spoken in such haste.
Her eyes could scarce see him, so full of tears were they, and, standing on tiptoe, she kissed him upon each cheek.
“’Tis much to get for so little given,” she said, with a quiver in her voice; “yet this price for friendship would be too high to pay to any save the Seigneur of Rozel.”
She hastily turned to the men who had rescued Michel and Buonespoir. “If I had riches, riches ye should have, brave men of Jersey,” she said, “but I have naught save love and thanks, and my prayers, too, if ye will have them.”