Looking over the hedge which enclosed old Enguerrand's orchard, Gabriel spied Diane's white dress among the trees. To tie his horse to a willow-tree and leap the hedge at a bound was the work of but a moment; glowing with pride and triumph, he fell at the young girl's feet.
But Diane was weeping.
"What is it, my dear little wife," said Gabriel; "and whence this bitter sorrow? Has Enguerrand been scolding us because of a torn dress, or because we made a slip in saying our prayers; or has our pet bullfinch flown away? Tell me, Diane dear. See, your faithful knight has come to comfort you."
"Alas! Gabriel, you cannot be my knight any more," said Diane; "and that is just why I am sad and am crying."
Gabriel supposed that Diane had learned from Enguerrand her play-fellow's name, and that perhaps she wished to test him. He replied,—
"What has happened, pray, Diane, lucky or unlucky, that can ever make me give up the dear title which you have allowed me to assume, and which I am so proud and happy to bear? See, here I am at your knees."
But Diane did not seem to understand; and she wept more bitterly than before, as she hid her face on Gabriel's breast, and sobbed,—
"Oh, Gabriel, Gabriel! We must not see each other any more."
"And who is to prevent us?" he rejoined quickly.
She raised her lovely fair head and her eyes swimming with tears; then with a little pout, altogether sober and solemn, she replied, sighing profoundly,—