"This will be news to me also," said she, her face hidden, "for I would be thinking in the night-time—in the dark—I would be thinking it would maybe be me you differed over.
"You, Mistress Margaret," cried he. "What could I ever be to such as you—but a servant?"
"Bryde McBride, do you ken what there is in my heart to be doing to you," and her eyes were all alight, and her breath coming fast—her face close to his and her arms round him: "I could be kissing your hurt till it was healed. I am wanting your head here, here at my heart, for I am yours—I will be yours—I will be yours."
"Some day," said Bryde in a soft whisper, with amazement in his tones—"some day you will find a man worthy of that great love. . . ."
But she was at her wheedling now.
"Will you tell me, Bryde—will you tell me truly?" and she put her lips to his ear. "I love you, Bryde—did ye not know? Am I not a shameless lass?"
"There never was maiden like you before, Margaret," said he. "I am always loving you, always. . . ."
"But tell me," she cried—"tell me," and she put her ear close to his mouth, and her eyes were closed and a smiling gladness on her face.
"Love you," he cried in a great voice. "The good God will maybe be knowing the love in my heart for you," and his face was grey with pain, but at his words she pressed her face to his gently.
"Now," she said, "I will be happy again."