She looked up at me, with a smile soft and sweet, at which my heart gave a great bound of joy—it could not be. No, I must be dreaming.
"Must I tell thee, stupid? Are thy wits gone wool-gathering?"
With a great cry of joy I took her in my arms, smiles, blushes, and tears, and held her close to my heart.
"Dear," I cried, "I never dreamed of this. Why didst thou not tell me before now?"
"Because thou didst not ask me. Oh, Thomas, why didst thou not ask me that night in the prison?"
"Margaret," I said, "thou shouldst love one handsome and young like thyself. Thou wilt be ashamed of me, sweet one, when thou seest me by the side of some gay, debonair, young gallant."
But she gently placed one soft white hand over my lips.
"Hush, not one word more, or I will vanish into yonder woods. Thou art more handsome in my eyes than any velvet gallant, for thou hast become a man of deeds, not words. Thou wilt go back with me to England," she whispered, her face close to mine; "together we can face the Queen, and I will have thee pardoned."
"Yes," I answered, "come what will, we go back together."
"When didst thou first love me, Margaret?" I asked, my eyes upon the bright head against my shoulder.