She was ministering to my scratches and abrasions, and I, sitting on the old hay-pile, watched her, joying in the gentle touch of her white, dexterous hands, her sweet motherliness and all the warm, vital beauty of her.
"Child," said I, "don't tremble so—the beasts are gone!"
"Yes, I know—I heard everything, Peregrine. And you down there—all alone—to fight them in the dreadful dark! And I once dared to call you coward!"
"So I was, Diana. So I am. It was you gave me courage, then and now—you and—my love for you."
"Your love?" she whispered, and now the tremor was in her voice also.
"It was Love guided me here to-night, Diana—brought me back to you—for ever and always if—if you will have it so."
"O Peregrine," she sighed, leaning towards me, "my Peregrine, then your love for me is not dead as I feared?"
"Nor ever can be," I answered, very conscious of her nearness, "surely true love is immortal, Diana."
"You speak rather like a book, Peregrine."
"I quote from your own letter, Diana."