She did it, kneeling at his knees or standing before him. For once he was that delight of a woman in love, her plaything, her toy—her baby, in a word. She girdled him with her arms at need; her fingers busy at neck or cheek-pieces unlaced the helm.
"Now kneel."
He obeyed her, and she grew tenderly deft over his wounds. She washed them clean, bound them up with strips torn from her skirt. She pushed back his hair from eyes and brows, and washed him clean of blood and sweat and rage. Her petticoat was her towel; she would have used her hair, but that she dared not lose command of herself and him. She wished for once to draw him, not to be drawn.
She knelt down on the moss, touching her lap meaningly as she did so.
"Rest here," said the gesture; "rest here, my dear heart," said the smile that flew with it.
He knelt beside her—all went well up to this. The moon was low, the night wearing; but the pure light came flowing through a rent in the trees, and she caught his look upon her. She tried, but she could not meet it. Then it befell her that she would not meet it if she could.
Prosper took something from his breast.
"Look," he said, as he held it up.
She watched it quivering in the moonbeams; her eyes brimmed; she grew blush-red, divinely ashamed.
"Hold your hand out," said Prosper. She had risen to her knees; they were kneeling face to face, very near.