They came by that stone gallery to a little terrace above the
Privy Steps. A crescent moon hung low over the Lambeth marshes
across the river. From a barge that floated gay with lights in
mid-stream came a tinkle of lutes, and the sweet voice of a
singing boy. A moment the lovers stood at gaze, entranced by the
beauty of the soft, tepid September night, so subtly adapted to
their mood. Then she fetched a sigh, and hung more heavily upon
his arm, leaned nearer to his tall, vigorous, graceful figure.
"Robin, Robin!" was all she said, but in her voice throbbed a
world of passionate longing, an exquisite blend of delight and
pain.
Judging the season ripe, his arm flashed round her, and drew her
fiercely close. For a moment she was content to yield, her head
against his stalwart shoulder, a very woman nestling to the mate
of her choice, surrendering to her master. Then the queen in her
awoke and strangled nature. Roughly she disengaged herself from
his arm, and stood away, her breathing quickened.
"God's Death, Robin!" There was a harsh note in the voice that
lately had cooed so softly. "You are strangely free, I think."
But he, impudence incarnate, nothing abashed, accustomed to her
gusty moods, to her alternations between the two natures she had
inherited--from overbearing father and wanton mother--was
determined at all costs to take the fullest advantage of the
hour, to make an end of suspense.
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