He hesitated, still doubtful--then threw himself on the turf at her
feet.

"I suppose it is for me to do the talking," she observed.

And as she talked he fell to watching the sun in her hair--the play of
her lips--the light in her eyes. . . . Never before would he have
believed that grey could be so deep and tender; or that a mouth could
be so tantalizing; or the curve of a cheek so sweet; or ruddy tresses
so alluring. . . . And her voice--was there ever such another!--soft,
low, clear, like silver bells at twilight out at sea.

And in the watching he lost her words, nor nodded when he
should--until, at length, she sprang up and went over to her horse.
And when in sharp contrition he followed after to apologize, she met
him with a laugh and gracious gesture--then pointed to the sun.

"The parole is lifted," she said. "Will you put me up?"

With his sound arm he swung her into saddle--and with Rollo in advance
and him beside her they went slowly back to Windsor. And now he did
the talking--telling first the story of the outlaws.

When the towers of the huge castle showed afar through the trees, De
Lacy halted.

"Would you deem me rude if I went no further with you?" he asked.

She smiled kindly. "On the contrary, I would deem you very wise."