“How—how did you learn that I was leaving?” he questioned hastily.
“Old Penelope told me ... and, John dear, she gave me a charm; a very potent spell should prevail with thee, an’ my poor pleading may not.”
Now, hearing the soft yearning in her voice, conscious of all the new, sweet gentleness of her as, tremulous, wistful, she leaned towards him appealingly, he looked resolutely out of the window.
“Spells and charms the most potent, my lady, shall prove of none avail, for my love is surely dead!”
“Nay, thou foolish John, perchance it may swoon a little, but ’tis not dead, for love that is of the true sort may never die. And thy love, methinks, is a true love indeed.”
“It was,” he corrected; “and you made of it a mock——”
“Nay, I did but laugh, John, but not at thy dear love-making.... Oh, indeed, thou’rt the merest man to be so blind! My laughter was by reason o’ the broken ornament, the tumbled chair, my torn gown.... I must ha’ seemed so clumsy ... but the room was so strait and I always feel myself so hugely vast! My laughter, John, was merest hysteria, which was strange in me, for I was never so before.”
“Ha—never?” he questioned suddenly.
“Never with thee, John.”
“The night Death crawled upon me in the hedge?”