I could trust you, as I have read that the maidens of old trusted
their knights. But--it seems impossible. In those days, centuries
and centuries ago, I guess, womanhood was next to--God. Men fought
for it, and died for it, to keep it pure and holy. If you had come
to me then you would have levelled your lance and fought for me
without asking a question, without demanding a reward, without
reasoning whether I was right or wrong--and all because I was a
woman. Now it is different. You are a part of civilization, and if
you should do all that I might ask of you it would be because you
have a price in view. I know. I have looked into you. I
understand. That price would be--ME!"

She looked at him now, her breast throbbing, almost a sob in her
quivering voice, defying him to deny the truth of her words.

"You have struck home," he said, and his voice sounded strange to
himself. "And I am not sorry. I am glad that you have seen--and
understand. It seems almost indecent for me to tell you this, when
I have known you for such a short time. But I have known you for
years--in my hopes and dreams. For you I would go to the end of
the world. And I can do what other men have done, centuries ago.
They called them knights. You may call me a MAN!"

At his words she rose from where she had been sitting. She faced
the radiant walls of the forests that rolled billow upon billow in
the distance, and the sun lighted up her crown of hair in a glory.
One hand still clung to her breast. She was breathing even more
quickly, and the flush had deepened in her cheek until it was like
the tender stain of the crushed bakneesh. Philip rose and stood
beside her. His shoulders were back. He looked where she looked,