Of The Humility of Helen the Proud

"And--thou art armed, my lord?"

"I ride for Thrasfordham-within-Bourne this night, my lady."

"But I am come to thee--humbly--craving thy forgiveness, Beltane."

"Nought have I to forgive thee, lady--save that thou art woman!"

"Thou would'st not have me--a man, messire?"

"'Twould be less hard to leave thee."

"Thou art--leaving me then, Beltane?"

"Yea, indeed, my lady. The woes of Pentavalon call to me with a thousand tongues: I must away--pray God I have not tarried too long!"

"But art yet weak of thy wound, Beltane. I pray thee tarry--a little longer. Ah, my lord, let not two lives go empty because of the arts of a false friend, for well do I know that Winfrida, seeing me coming to thee in the garden, kissed thee of set purpose, that, beholding, I might grieve."

"Is this indeed so, my lady?"

"She did confess it but now."

"Said she so indeed?"

"Aye, my lord, after I had--pulled her hair--a little. But O, my Beltane, even when I thought thee base, I loved thee! Ah, go not from me, stay but until to-morrow, and then shalt thou wed me for thine own! Leave me not, Beltane, for indeed--I cannot live--without thee!"

So saying, she sank down upon his couch, hiding her face in the pillow.

Now came Beltane and leaned above her.

"Helen!" he whispered; and falling upon his knees, he set his arms about her. Then lifted she her tearful face and looked upon him in the moonlight; and lying thus, of a sudden reached out white arms to him: and in her eyes was love, and on her quivering lips and in all the yearning beauty of her, love called to him.