At this moment they were passing the church, and the rain began to fall in earnest. By some mutual impulse they entered through the chancel door which was always unlocked, and by some mutual folly, left it open.
Advancing instinctively to the tombs of the unknown Plantagenet lady and her knight which were so intimately connected with the little events of their little lives, they listened for a while to the rush of the rain upon the leaden roof, saying nothing, till the silence grew irksome indeed. Each waited for the other to break it, but with a woman’s infinite patience Isobel waited the longer. There she stood, staring at the brass of the Plantagenet lady, still as the bones of that lady which lay beneath.
“My story,” said Godfrey at last with a gasp, and stopped.
“Yes,” said Isobel. “What is it?”
“Oh!” he exclaimed in an agony, “a very short one. I love you, that’s all.”
A little quiver ran through her, causing her dress to shake and the gold Mexican gods on her necklace to tinkle against each other. Then she grew still as a stone, and raising those large and steady eyes of hers, looked him up and down, finally fixing them upon his own.
“Is that true?” she asked.
“True! It is as true as life and death, or as Heaven and Hell.”
“I don’t know anything about Heaven and Hell; they are hypothetical, are they not? Life and death are enough for me,” and she stopped.
“Then by life and death, for life and death, and for ever, I love you, Isobel.”