"Above all, thou art--a man, messire!"

Then did my Beltane lift his head and saw how the colour was deepened
in her cheek and how her tender eyes drooped before his.

"Tell me," he said, "is there ever a woman to love such a man? Is there
ever a woman who would leave the hum and glitter of cities to walk with
such as I in the shadow of these forest-lands? Speak, Oh speak I do
beseech thee!" Thus said he and stopped, waiting her answer.

"Nay, Beltane," she whispered, "let thine own heart speak me this."

All blithe and glorious grew the world about him as he stooped and
caught her in his arms, lifting her high against his heart. And, in
this moment, he forgot the teaching of Ambrose the Hermit, forgot all
things under heaven, save the glory of her beauty, the drooping languor
of her eyes and the sweet, moist tremor of her mouth. And so he kissed
her, murmuring 'twixt his kisses:

"Fairer art thou than all the flowers, O my love, and sweeter thy
breath than the breath of flowers!"

Thus Helen the Proud, the Beautiful, yielded her lips to his, and in
all the world for her was nought save the deep, soft voice of Beltane,
and his eyes, and the new, sweet ecstasy that thrilled within her.
Surely nowhere in all the world was there such another man as this, so
strong and gentle, so meet for love and yet so virginal. Surely life
might be very fair here in the green solitudes, aye, surely, surely--