eeming it a breach of honor."

"Why?"

"For shame, I suppose."

"Is it shameless to speak as I do?" she asked.

"Not to me, Dorothy. I wish you might be spared all that unlicensed
gossip that you hear at table--not that it could harm such innocence as
yours! For, on my honor, I never knew a woman such as you, nor a maid
so nobly fashioned!"

I stopped, meeting her wide eyes.

"Say it," she murmured. "It is happiness to hear you."

"Then hear me," I said, slowly. "Loyalty, devotion, tenderness, all are
your due; not alone for the fair body that holds your soul imprisoned,
but for the pure tenant that dwells in it so sweetly behind the blue
windows of your eyes! Dorothy! Dorothy! Have I said too much? Yet I beg
that you remember it, lest you forget me when I have gone from you....
And say to Sir George that I said it.... Tell him after you are wedded,
and say that all men envy him, yet wish him well. For the day he weds he
weds the noblest woman in all the confines of this earth!"

Dazed, she stared at me through the fading light; and I saw her eyes all
wet in the shadow of her tangled hair and the pulse beating in
her throat.

"You are so good--so pitiful," she said; "and I cannot even find the
words to tell you of those deep thoughts you stir in me--to tell you how
sweetly you use me--"

"Tell me no more," I stammered, all a-quiver at her voice. She shrank
back as at a blow, and I, head swimming, frighted, penitent, caught her
small hand in mine and drew her nearer; nor could I speak for the loud
beating of my heart.

"What is it?" she murmured. "Have I pained you that you tremble so? Look
at me, cousin. I can scarce see you in the dusk. Have I hurt you? I love
you dearly."

Her horse moved nearer, our knees touched. In the forest darkness I
found I held her waist imprisoned, and her arms were heavy on my
shoulders. Then her lips yielded and her arms tightened around my neck,
and that swift embrace in the swimming darkness kindled in me a flame
that has never died--that shall live when this poor body crumbles into
dust, lighting my soul through its last dark pilgrimage.

As for her, she sat up in her saddle with a strange little laugh, still
holding to my hand. "Oh, you are divine in all you lead me to," she
whispered. "Never, never have I known delight in a kiss; and I have been
kissed, too, willing and against my will. But you leave me breathing my
heart out and all a-tremble with a tenderness for you