"And take me away when I had been longer here—my grief would only be greater. No—I must go now or stay always."
On hearing these words Hector fell on one knee, seized her hand and kissed it, and, looking up with eyes overflowing with love, said—
"Yes—always! always!—you know that I love you, Daphnè—I wish to tell you how I will adore you all my life long."
Daphnè yielded to her heart—and let him kiss her hand without resistance.
"But alas!" she said, "I can't be always guarding a flock. What will the poor shepherdess do?"
"Am I not your shepherd? your Daphnis?" cried Hector, as if inspired—"trust to me, Daphnè—to my heart—to my soul! This hand shall never be separated from yours: we shall live the same life—in the sane sunshine—in the same shadow—in the same hovel—in the same palace; but with you, dearest Daphnè, the humblest hut would be a palace. Listen, my dearest Daphnè: at a short distance from here there is a cottage—the Cottage of the Vines—that belongs to the sister of my nurse, where we can live in love and happiness—no eye to watch and no tongue to wound us."
"Never! never!" said Daphnè.
She snatched her hands from those of her lover, retreated a few paces, and began to cry. Hector went up to her; he spoke of his affection—he besought her with tears in his eyes—he was so eloquent and so sincere, that poor Daphnè was unable to resist, for any length of time, those bewildering shocks of first love to which the wisest of us yield: she said, all pale and trembling—
"Well—yes—I trust myself to you—and heaven. I am not to blame—is it my fault that I love you so?"
A tender embrace followed these words. Evening was now come; the sun, sinking behind the clouds on the horizon, cast but a feeble light; the little herdsman was driving home his oxen and his flock of turkeys, whose gabbling disturbed the solemnity of the closing day. The flock belonging to the castle turned naturally towards the watering-place.