"Had he been a villain and a coward," was her thought, "he would have
made my life a bitter battle; but 'tis me he loves, not himself only, and
as I honour him so does he honour me."

Now she beheld the same passion in his eyes, but no more held in leash:
his look met hers, hiding from her nothing of what his high soul burned
with; and she was free--free to answer when he spoke, and only feeling
one bitterness in her heart--if he had but come in time--God! why had he
not been sent in time?

But, late or early, he had come; and what they had to give each other
should not be mocked at and lost. The night she had ended by going to
Anne's chamber, she had paced her room saying this again and again, all
the strength of her being rising in revolt. She had been then a caged
tigress of a verity; she had wrung her hands; she had held her palm hard
against her leaping heart; she had walked madly to and fro, battling in
thought with what seemed awful fate; she had flung herself upon her knees
and wept bitter scalding tears.

"He is so noble," she had cried--"he is so noble--and I so worship his
nobleness--and I have been so base!"

And in her suffering her woman's nerves had for a moment betrayed her.
Heretofore she had known no weakness of her sex, but the woman soul in
her so being moved, she had been broken and conquered for a space, and
had gone to Anne's chamber, scarcely knowing what refuge she so sought.
It had been a feminine act, and she had realised all it signified when
Anne sank weeping by her. Women who wept and prated together at midnight
in their chambers ended by telling their secrets. So it was that it fell