ing in the world for me--the only thing. Be
brave! I have your hand. Give it for good, and for heaven's sake don't
play the sex. Be yourself. Dear soul of a woman! I never saw the soul in
one but in you. I have waited: nothing but the dread of losing you sets
me speaking now. And for you to be sacrificed a second time to that--!
Oh, no! You know you can trust me. On my honour, I take breath from you.
You are my better in everything--guide, goddess, dearest heart! Trust
me; make me master of your fate.'

'But my friend!' the murmur hung in her throat. He was marvellously
transformed; he allowed no space for the arts of defence and evasion.

'I wish I had the trick of courting. There's not time; and I 'm a
simpleton at the game. We can start this evening. Once away, we leave
it to them to settle the matter, and then you are free, and mine to the
death.'

'But speak, speak! What is it?' Diana said.

'That if we delay, I 'm in danger of losing you altogether.'

Her eyes lightened: 'You mean that you have heard he has determined--?'

'There's a process of the law. But stop it. Just this one step, and
it ends. Whether intended or not, it hangs over you, and you will be
perpetually tormented. Why waste your whole youth?--and mine as well!
For I am bound to you as much as if we had stood at the altar--where we
will stand together the instant you are free.'

'But where have you heard...?'

'From an intimate friend. I will tell you--sufficiently intimate--from
Lady Wathin. Nothing of a friend, but I see this woman at times.
She chose to speak of it to me it doesn't matter why. She is in his
confidence, and pitched me a whimpering tale. Let those people chatter.
But it 's exactly for those people that you are hanging in chains, all
your youth shrivelling. Let them shout their worst! It's the bark of
a day; and you won't hear it; half a year, and it will be over, and I
shall bring you back--the husband of the noblest bride in Christendom!
You don't mistrust me?'

'It is not that,' said she. 'But now drop my hand. I am imprisoned.'

'It's asking too much. I've lost you--too many times. I have the hand
and I keep it. I take nothing but the hand. It's the hand I want. I give
you mine. I love you. Now I know what love is!--and the word carries
nothing of its weight. Tell me you do not doubt my honour.'

'Not at all. But be rational. I must think, and I cannot while you keep
my hand.'

He kissed it. 'I keep my own against