“There he must have been talking of the treasure, Foy,” she answered, her face lightening to a smile.
“Ay, of the treasure, sweet, the treasure of your dear heart.”
“A poor thing, Foy, but I think that—it rings true.”
“It had need, Elsa, yet the best of coin may crack with rough usage.”
“Mine will wear till death, Foy.”
“I ask no more, Elsa. When I am dead, spend it elsewhere; I shall find it again above where there is no marrying or giving in marriage.”
“There would be but small change left to spend, Foy, so look to your own gold and—see that you do not alter its image and superscription, for metal will melt in the furnace, and each queen has her stamp.”
“Enough,” he broke in impatiently. “Why do you talk of such things, and in these riddles which puzzle me?”
“Because, because, we are not married yet, and—the words are not mine—precious things are dearly won. Perfect love and perfect peace cannot be bought with a few sweet words and kisses; they must be earned in trial and tribulation.”
“Of which I have no doubt we shall find plenty,” Foy replied cheerfully. “Meanwhile, the kisses make a good road to travel on.”