, her stomacher stiff
with silver bullion studded with gold rosettes and Roman pearls, her
bodice cut low to display her splendid neck, decked by a carcanet of
pearls and rubies, and surmounted by a fan-like cuff of guipure, high
behind and sloping towards the bust. Thus she appeared to the sentinel
as the rays of the single lamp behind him struck fire from her red-gold
hair. As if by her very gait to express the wantonness of her mood, she
pointed her toes and walked with head thrown back, smiling up into
the gipsy face of her companion, who was arrayed from head to foot in
shimmering ivory satin, with an elegance no man in England could have
matched.

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.

"I am not free, but enslaved--by love and worship of you. Would you deny
me; Would you?"

"Not I, but fate," she answered heavily, and he knew that the woman at
Cumnor was in her mind.

"Fate will soon mend the wrong that fate has done--very soon now." He
took her hand, and, melted again from her dignity, she let it lie in
his. "When that is done, sweet, then will