“Well,” she said, slowly again and with still longer hesitations, “there was one other, but—but ’twas—well, the blackest kind of a black devil that tempted me, that led me on, that showed me the excitement of it all, that taught me the ease of escape and flight!”
“A—a—black devil!” Cecil was echoing her words, and yet Judith was well aware that not yet did he know the truth.
“Ay, a black devil,” she answered. “The Black Devil himself. I was the Black Devil. I was that black highwayman. But ’twas only a joke of a highwayman, Cecil, only a joke when I held up all those stupid, cowardly lords. Only a joke when I frightened the poor old bishop. Only a joke when I made Grimsby come to poor Jack’s rescue. Only a joke to frighten Barbara. It was all a joke, until I knew what a scrape I’d got Lord Farquhart into. And then I knew I had to rescue Farquhart. And rescue him I did. So I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never injured anyone. I robbed no one really, you know, and, oh, Cecil, Cecil, can’t you see that ’twas only done for fun, all of it? And it’s all gone from me now, gone from me forever, every bit of it. And, Cecil, it’s love, love for you, that’s exorcised it. Even the devil himself can be exorcised by love. Even the Black Devil himself can be exorcised by the kind of love I have for you.”
It was not only her words that pleaded. Love itself pleaded in the tawny eyes, on the tender lips, with the clinging hands, and in very truth it is doubtful if the devil himself could have found place between her lips that clung to his, within his arms that clasped her close.
And in Geldino’s sherris, opened by Marmaduke Bass, Lindley only repeated a former toast, offered in the same place; for, with laughing eyes on Judith’s, he said:
“Shall we drink once more, and for the last time, to the Gentleman of the Highways?”
FROM GARDENS OVER SEAS
(A Rondel After Catulle Mendes)
I am the merle for whistling known,