“Nay, I have much more to say of my own.” Then suddenly Wulf became very earnest—so earnest that his great frame shook, and when he strove to speak he could but stammer. At length it all came forth in a flood of burning words.
“I love you, Rosamund! I love you—all of you, as I have ever loved you—though I did not know it till the other day—that of the fight, and ever shall love you—and I seek you for my wife. I know that I am only a rough soldier-man, full of faults, not holy and learned like Godwin. Yet I swear that I would be a true knight to you all my life, and, if the saints give me grace and strength, do great deeds in your honour and watch you well. Oh! what more is there to say?”
“Nothing, Wulf,” answered Rosamund, lifting her downcast eyes. “You do not wish that I should answer you, so I will thank you—yes, from my heart, though, in truth, I am grieved that we can be no more brother and sister, as we have been this many a year—and be going.”
“Nay, Rosamund, not yet. Although you may not speak, surely you might give me some little sign, who am in torment, and thus must stay until this time to-morrow. For instance, you might let me kiss your hand—the pact said nothing about kissing.”
“I know naught of this pact, Wulf,” answered Rosamund sternly, although a smile crept about the corners of her mouth, “but I do know that I shall not suffer you to touch my hand.”
“Then I will kiss your robe,” and seizing a corner of her cloak, he pressed it to his lips.
“You are strong—I am weak, Wulf, and cannot wrench my garment from you, but I tell you that this play advantages you nothing.”
He let the cloak fall.
“Your pardon. I should have remembered that Godwin would never have presumed so far.”
“Godwin,” she said, tapping her foot upon the ground, “if he gave a promise, would keep it in the spirit as well as in the letter.”