Now beholding all the warm beauty of her as she knelt humbly before me, the surge and tumult of her bosom, the quiver of her red lips, the tearful light of her eyes, I was moved beyond speech, and ever she knelt there bowed and shaken in her mute abasement.
"My Lady Joan," said I at last, "for your pure self I can have nought to forgive—I—that am all unworthy to touch the latchet of your shoe ... Rise, I pray."
"And for—my father?" she whispered, "Alas, my poor, miserable father—"
"Speak not of him!" I cried. "Needs must there be hate and enmity betwixt us until the end." So was silence awhile nor did I look up, dreading to see her grief.
"Your face is cut, Martin!" said she at last, very softly, "Suffer that I bathe it." Now turning in amaze I saw her yet upon her knees, looking up at me despite her falling tears: "Wilt suffer me to bathe it, Martin?" says she, her voice unshaken by any sob. I shook my head; but rising she crossed to the door and came back bearing a small pannikin of water. "I brought this for the purpose," says she.
"Nay, indeed, I—I am well enough—"
"Then I will make you better!"
"No!" says I, angrily.
"Yes!" says she patiently, but setting dimpled chin at me.
"And wherefore, madam?"