But in a while she spake, low and very humble.
"Dear my lord, the moon doth set already, methinks!"
"Aye, but there is no cloud to dim her glory to-night, Helen!"
"But the hour waxeth—very late, my lord and I—must away."
"Aye, beloved, let us go."
"Nay my lord, I—O dear Beltane—"
"Wife!" said he, "dear my love and wife, have I not waited long enough?"
Hand in hand they walked amid the flowers with eyes only for each other until came they to a stair and up the stair to a chamber, rich with silk and arras and sweet with spicy odours, a chamber dim-lighted by a silver lamp pendent from carven roof-beam, whose soft glow filled the place with shadow. Yet even in this tender dimness, or because of it, her colour ebbed and flowed, her breath came apace and she stood before him voiceless and very still save for the sweet tumult of her bosom.
Then Beltane loosed off his sword and laid it upon the silken couch, but perceiving how she trembled, he set his arm about her and drew her to the open lattice where the moon made a pool of glory at their feet.
"Dost fear me, Helen?"