Then, while Beltane, speaking not, watched her downbent head and busy hands, she filed off his fetters one by one, and kissing them, set them aside.
But when she would have risen he prevented her, and with reverent fingers touched the coiled and braided glory of her hair.
"O Helen," he whispered, "loose me down thy hair."
"Nay, dear Beltane—"
"My hands are so big and clumsy—"
"Thy hands are my hands!" and she caught and kissed them.
"Let down for me thy hair, beloved, I pray thee!"
"Forsooth my lord and so I will—but—not yet."
"But the—the hour groweth late, Helen!"
"Nay—indeed—'tis early yet, my lord—nay, as thou wilt, my Beltane, only suffer that I—I leave thee a while, I pray."