“Loose me!” she commanded.
“Never! Hark, there yields the good door at last!”
“Then here will we die!”
“So be it, Yolande! A sweet death thus, heart to heart and lip to lip!”
“O Fool—I hate thee!”
“Howbeit, Yolande—I love thee!”
“Yolande! Ha—Yolande!”
The cry was louder now and so near that she shivered and, hiding her face, spake below her breath:
“The turret-stair—behind the arras of my bed!”
Swiftly, lightly he bore her down the winding stair and by divers passage-ways until, thrusting open a narrow door, he found himself within the garden and, keeping ever amid the darkest shadows, hasted on to the postern hard by the lily-pool.