“With thee, rather, my lady,” he answered; “for, O Herminia, an ordinary cottage cramps and cannot hold us ’twould seem, nay, the whole wide world were scarce great enough for such love as ours.”
“I pray you speak for yourself, Sir John.”
“Then hear me, Herminia, though verily my love transcends all speech and thought, for ’tis of Infinity itself. With thee beside me life should become more worthy for thy sake ... without thee ’twere an emptiness, and death a lovely thing. Marry me, Herminia; see here upon my knees I supplicate.”
For a long moment Herminia was speechless because of her heart’s tumultuous beating, her cheeks aglow, her eyes very tender beneath their drooping lashes; but from Sir John, thus kneeling in his new humility, her glance wandered to the shattered china ornament, the overturned chair, the jagged rent in her gown, and from her parted lips trilled sudden laughter, and, or ever she might check it, Sir John was upon his feet, viewing her beneath wrinkling brows, coldly curious.
“Ah, my Lady Barrasdaile,” said he softly, “in this sorry world are to be found miserable wretches who, to vent their puny spite, will foully desecrate the holiest of holies.... My love was a holy thing, and you, for your foolish pride’s sake, would make a mock of it. Here, madam, I read the grand culmination o’ your empty vengeance. Well, so be it. But I tell you that ‘the Wicked Dering’ at his worst could never sink to such depths as yours——” At this she turned and would have left him, but his out-thrust arm stayed her. “One moment longer, madam!” he commanded. “Your vengeance is complete, but ... my bitterest scorn goeth with you now and——”
“Your scorn!” she cried in choking voice; and, seizing his arm that still barred her escape, she wrenched and twisted it in furious hands until he winced with the pain of it. “Your scorn!” she panted. “You whose hands are red with blood!”
“God’s love, madam!” quoth he between pallid lips. “And was it you indeed who with her own body would ha’ shielded me from an assassin’s stroke?”
“And is it you would remember a moment of hysteria?” she retorted passionately.
Sir John recoiled.
“Hysteria?” he stammered. “Hysteria? And was it so, indeed? Nay—nay, madam, what mean ye?”