e or resistance, bodily
or mental. She had given her heart therefore her body was also his to
use as he willed, and feeling her thus abandoned to him all the boy's
chivalry was stirred anew, and the hunger for possession was lost in
the desire to serve and protect.

Possibly if he had been forty instead of twenty-eight, he would perhaps
have demanded a man's rights. Being, however, according to the world's
standard, a fool and a dreamer, he chose to let the moment pass, to
refuse what the gods offered, to think of Arithelli rather than of
himself.

"I'm hurting you, dear." His voice shook a little, in spite of his
efforts to control it.

"No. Nothing hurts now. And I'm glad you love me."

"I hurt you a minute ago. I was mad and a beast. Will you forgive me?
You are not frightened?"

"No. I was only thinking of the future of tomorrow."

"Let us forget to-morrow," the boy pleaded. "Can you not forget for
once?"

"We have to-day, and each other. '_Aujourd'hui le Printemps, Ninon_.'
It's summer for us now, Fatalite! When one loves there is always
summer."

He drew her out into the starlight as he heard the noise of the men
pushing back their seats and moving about overhead.

Several voices were raised in angry altercation.

He raged inwardly as he thought how in a few minutes he would have to
see her at the orders of them all, sent here and there, at everyone's
call, and forced to work without either thanks or reward.

"Let me go in, dear," Arithelli said. "They will expect to find things
ready."

But Vardri held her back.

"Let them expect! Give them the trouble of looking for you. They keep
you up all night, so they can afford to waste a few minutes extra."

It was both a foolish and useless protest and Arithelli knew that she
would pay afterwards for these snatched moments, but she did not grudge
the price, for to her they seemed worth the payment required.

She was glad of the air too.

She turned a little in Vardri's arms, lifting her face to the soft
night wind. The coolness and the dark were like the touch of a
soothing hand.

The branches of the tree under which they stood rustled softly, and the
undergrowth stirred with the startled movements of some awakened bird
or small animal.

A bat flew past, almost brushing them with its velvet wings. From the
marsh lands below the dangerous white mist hovered like a fairy veil.

"I love the night," Arithelli whispered. "It makes me