The man paused for breath, so shaken was he by the force of his passion.
Elinor Calvert looked at him in terror, unable to break by word or movement the spell under which he held her. He made a stride closer, and grasped her hand.
"What stands between us?" he asked, holding her eyes with his, those penetrating eyes that had the power to pierce all disguises, to rend all shams to tatters, "Norse een like grey goshawks." Most eyes only look—Neville's saw. The woman before him felt evasions impossible, subterfuges of no avail.
"Your faith," she answered.
"You cared a little for me, then, in the old days?"
"I did," she answered, like one in a trance bending to the will of the questioner. As she spoke she unconsciously laid her hand upon the diamond crescent at her breast.
His eyes followed her motion and he colored high, for he saw that it was the brooch he had sent her at her marriage. She saw that he saw, and she too blushed, a painful blush that stained her face crimson and ran up to lose itself in the shadow of her hair.
"I know who have stood in the way of thy loving me; but let them no longer come between thee and me, or their tonsured heads shall answer for it to my sword."
Elinor frowned, and Neville saw that he was endangering his cause.
"Forgive my impetuous speech!" said he. "Forget that the words were spoken."