"Holy Ouen!" said Adhelmar; "since I needs must die, I will die in
France, not in the cold land of England."

"Die!" cried Melite. "Are you hurt so sorely, then?"

He grinned like a death's-head. "My injuries are not incurable," said
he, "yet must I die very quickly, for all that. The English King will
hang me if I go thither, as he has sworn to do these eight years, because
of that matter of Almerigo di Pavia: and if I stay in France, I must hang
because of this night's work."

Melite wept. "O God! O God!" she quavered, two or three times, like one
hurt in the throat. "And you have done this for me! Is there no way to
save you, Adhelmar?" she pleaded, with wide, frightened eyes that were
like a child's.

"None," said Adhelmar. He took both her hands in his, very tenderly. "Ah,
my sweet," said he, "must I, whose grave is already digged, waste breath
upon this idle talk of kingdoms and the squabbling men who rule them? I
have but a brief while to live, and I wish to forget that there is aught
else in the world save you, and that I love you. Do not weep, Melite! In
a little time you will forget me and be happy with this Hugues whom you
love; and I?--ah, my sweet, I think that even in my grave I shall dream
of you and of your great beauty and of the exceeding love that I bore you
in the old days."

"Ah, no, I shall not ever forget, O true and faithful lover! And, indeed,
indeed, Adhelmar, I would give my life right willingly that yours might
be saved!"