The days slipped past, and each day he watched her quietly for slightest sign of compunction, or retraction. And if such had come to her, sore though he might have felt, and bereaved of the perfect unfolding of the fair flower of their love, he would have choked the feeling down, trampled on it, buried it so that she would have seen no sign of it in him. For he recognised to the fullest what a mighty thing this was that he was asking of her.
But she understood him perfectly, fathomed his fears, was on the look-out for his quietly-questioning looks, and met them with clear full-eyed serenity and a face rosy at times with anticipation.
"You need not fear for me," she laughed softly, one night as she lay in his arm before the fire. "I shall not change."
He clasped her closer. "I could not blame you if you did. From every worldly point of view you would be right——"
"What have we to do with worldly points of view? We are out of it all. We are here alone, and like to be. And we are doing right in our own eyes."
"I would risk my soul on what seems right to these pure eyes," and he bent and kissed them warmly.
"Ten more days!" she murmured, and nestled closer, with her head on his breast so that she could feel the strong beating of his heart.
"It says 'Avice!—Avice!—Avice!'" he said quietly. "It is full of Avice," and she pressed still closer.
So the great day came, the greatest day either of their lives had known.
Wulf had found sleep impossible. His heart, full-charged, felt like to burst its mortal bounds. He rose quietly in the dark and went out into the soft twilight of the dawn—to greet the coming of the perfect day. And she, as impossible of sleep as he, heard him in spite of all his caution, and laughed softly to herself for very happiness in him and in herself. And when he had gone, she thanked God for this great gift of a true man's love, and for that in herself which responded to it so fully.