“But you are alive!” said she, staring towards the quiet village beneath wrinkled brows. “Live, then, to better purpose.”
“Ah, Rose,” he sighed, “thy pretty moralities fall so trippingly from thy rosy, innocent lip; thou art in thy simple wisdom such an angel of inspiration that I would we had met ... five weary years ago!”
“Five years ago?” she repeated, turning upon him. “Have you forgot——?” Here, beholding his grim-smiling mouth, the mockery of his eyes, she caught her breath and was silent.
“Five long years ago, child, I killed a man—by accident. Ah, sweet Rose, gentle maid, if only thou hadst come to me then ... to soothe my bitter grief! Dear, lovely Rose, that little ‘if’ held, then as now, a world of possibilities even for such an abandoned wretch as ‘the Wicked Dering.’ But we are still alive, and to live is to hope.... And Dame Haryott desires speech with me. And thou would’st behold a witch, so come thy ways with thy loving, gentle John.”
“Gentle?” cried she angrily. “Aye, with the eyes of a mocking fiend!”
“But the heart of a respectable young man, Rose!”
“Your crime brought its own consequences, sir.”
“It did!” he sighed. “And not the least of ’em, thyself! When wilt marry me?”
“Never!”