“I will do myself the honor to visit your prison to-morrow,” he said.
“My father will welcome you, my lord,” she answered, and, gathering up her skirt, ran down the pathway.
He stood, unmoving, and watched her disappear.
“But I shall have my way with them both,” he said, aloud.
The voice of a singer sounded in the greenwood. Half consciously Leicester listened. The words came shrilling through the trees:
“Oh, love, it is a lily flower,
(Sing, my captain, sing, my lady!)
The sword shall cleave it, Life shall leave it—
Who shall know the hour?
(Sing, my lady, still!).”