“Then you shall not clasp me in your arms till I am sure of myself and you.”
Robert wrestled with an unwelcome sense of reverence. Surely it was madness to be baffled by a country maid. He held out his comely hands, he commanded every appealing intonation of his musical voice.
“Child,” he cried, “you shall not deny me now. I am your hunter, sweet, and you my quarry. Be happy, being mine.”
He moved upon her as he spoke, trusting to charm her with the spell of speech that never yet had known defeat. But the girl stretched out her hand to stay him, and he paused, angry and yet curious to see how far she would carry contradiction.
“Stand back!” she said. “I am not afraid of love. I am not afraid of you. But your voice is not the voice of the woods, and your eyes shine with another light. You cannot snare me so.”
He saw that she distrusted him; he saw that she did not fear him; he knew that he had not won her, yet believed himself near to the winning.
“If you love me—” Robert cried.
The girl stretched out her arms to the wide sky in protest.
“If I love you!” Her arms dropped to her sides and she continued, sadly, “I have dreamed of you very often, but I never dreamed of you thus.”