She saw the lovelight and the triumph, in
his eyes. "I shall take thee home!" he said.
She stepped back a pace, lifting both hands toward him, palms outward,
and stood thus gazing, with eyes full of sorrow.
"My poor Hugh," she whispered; "it is useless to wait. I shall not
come."
"Yet five days," said the Knight, "I shall tarry in Worcester. Each
day, after Vespers, I shall be here."
"Go to-day, dear Hugh. Ride to Warwick and tell thy priest, that which
indeed he should know without the telling: that a nun does not break
her vows. This is our final farewell, Hugh. Thou hadst best believe
it, and go."
"Our last farewell?" he said.
"Our last."
"Here and now?"
"Here and now, dear Hugh."
Looking into that calm face, so lovely in its sadness, he saw that she
meant it.
Of a sudden he knew he had lost her; he knew life's way stretched
lonely before him, evermore.
"Yes," he said, "yes. It is indeed farewell--here and now--forever."
The dull despair in the voice which, but a few moments before, had
vibrated with love and hope, wrung her heart.
She still held her hands before her, as if to ward him off.
"Ah, Hugh," she cried, sharply, "be merciful, and go! Spare me, and go
quickly."
The Knight heard in her voice a tone it had not hitherto held. But he
loved her loyally; therefore he kept his own anguish under strong
control.
Placing the lantern on the ground, he knelt on one knee before her.
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