Glamoured by his love and his sophistry, his judgment, his sense of right and wrong, failed him. Sidney caught his Delilah to his heart.
“It shall be as you wish, my sweet,” he said; “and now tell me you love me.”
“I love you,” she said, repressing the triumph in her voice. “I love you and I am proud of you,” she said again, holding her head high. If she had lost much in Mullein meadow she had also gained a triumph there.
The short American twilight was darkening to night. The weird old boulders sentinelled round them might have been a druidical circle, and she the priestess fulfilling the rites. Nor was the victim wanting; only instead of slaying the body with a golden knife she had killed the soul with silvery speech.
“Ah,” said Sidney as they turned to thread their way out of Mullein meadow, “surely this place is holy.”
She paused, looking at him—“Do you not think that suffering sanctifies more than joy?” she asked.
“No, not such joy as ours, as Lanty’s and Mabella’s.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“But I’m sure of it!” he answered; then with a lover’s fantastical fondness he went on, “I would not be surprised if when we visited this spot again we found it hedged in by lilies, tall white eucharist lilies, set to keep others from straying into consecrated ground.”