her soft, sweet-scented hair and her tears.

"Oh, I have slain you, I have slain you, my love!" she sobbed, making a
low, sweet moan, as a cushat in the wild wood, for I lay deadly still,
being overcome with pain and joy. And there I was, my love comforting me
as a mother comforts her child.

I moved my hand, to take hers in mine--her little hand; and so, for a
space, there was silence between us, save for her kind moaning, and in my
heart was such gladness as comes but once to men, and may not be spoken
in words of this world.

There was silence between us; then she rose very gently and tossed back
her hair, showing her face wet with tears, but rosy-red with happiness
and sweet shame. Had it not been for that chance hurt, how long might I
have wooed ere I won her? But her heart was molten by my anguish.

"Hath the pain passed?" she whispered.

"Sweet was the pain, my love, and sweetly hast thou healed it with thy
magic."

Then she kissed me, and so fled from the room, as one abashed, and came
not back that day, when, indeed, I did not rise, nor for two days more,
being weaker than we had deemed. But happiness is the greatest leech on
earth, and does the rarest miracles of healing; so in three days' space I
won strength to leave my bed and my room, and could sit by the door, at
noon, in the sun of spring, that is warmer in France than in our own
country.