"But," stammered Barnabas, "but—I thought—"

"Evil of me!" says she.

"No—that is—I—I—Forgive me!"

"Sir, there are some things no woman can forgive; you dared to think—"

"Of the rogue who came instead," said Barnabas.

"Ah!—the rogue?"

"His name is Chichester," said Barnabas.

"Chichester!" she repeated, incredulously. "Chichester!"

"A tall, slender, dark man, with a scar on his cheek," added Barnabas.

"Do you mean he was here—here to meet me—alone?"

Now, at this she seemed to shrink into herself; and, all at once, sank down, crouching upon her knees, and hid her face from the moon.

"My lady!"

"Oh!" she sighed, "oh, that he should have come to this!"

"My Lady Cleone!" said Barnabas, and touched her very gently.

"And you—you!" she cried, shuddering away from him, "you thought me what—he would have made me! You thought I—Oh, shame! Ah, don't touch me!"

But Barnabas stooped and caught her hands, and sank upon his knees, and thus, as they knelt together in the moonlight, he drew her so that she must needs let him see her face.

"My lady," said he, very reverently, "my thought of you is this, that, if such great honor may be mine, I will marry you—to-night."

But hereupon, with her two hands still prisoned in his, and with the tears yet thick upon her lashes, she threw back her head, and laughed with her eyes staring into his. Thereat Barnabas frowned blackly, and dropped her hands, then caught her suddenly in his long arms, and held her close.

"By God!" he exclaimed, "I'd kiss you, Cleone, on that scornful, laughing mouth, only—I love you—and this is a solitude. Come away!"

"A solitude," she repeated; "yes, and he sent me here, to meet a beast—a satyr! And now—you! You drove away the other brute, oh! I can't struggle—you are too strong—and nothing matters now!" And so she sighed, and closed her eyes. Then gazing down upon her rich, warm beauty, Barnabas trembled, and loosed her, and sprang to his feet.

"I think," said he, turning away to pick up his cudgel, "I think—we had—better—go."

But my lady remained crouched upon her knees, gazing up at him under her wet lashes.

"You didn't—kiss me!" she said, wonderingly.

"You were so—helpless!" said Barnabas. "And I honor you because it was—your brother."

"Ah! but you doubted me first, you thought I came here to meet that—beast!"

"Forgive me," said Barnabas, humbly.

"Why should I?"

"Because I love you."

"So many men have told me that," she sighed.

"But I," said Barnabas, "I am the last, and it is written 'the last shall be first,' and I love you because you are passionate, and pure, and very brave."

"Love!" she exclaimed, "so soon; you have seen me only once!"

"Yes," he nodded, "it is, therefore, to be expected that I shall worship you also—in due season."

Now Barnabas stood leaning upon his stick, a tall, impassive figure; his voice was low, yet it thrilled in her ears, and there was that in his steadfast eyes before which her own wavered and fell; yet, even so, from the shadow of her hood, she must needs question him further.

"Worship me? When?"

"When you are—my—wife."

Again she was silent, while one slender hand plucked nervously at the grass.

"Are you so sure of me?" she inquired at last.

"No; only of myself."

"Ah! you mean to—force a promise from me—here?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it is night, and you are solitary; I would not have you fear me again. But I shall come to you, one day, a day when the sun is in the sky, and friends are within call. I shall come and ask you then."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I shall wait."

"Until I wed another?"

"Until you change your mind."

"I think I shall—refuse you."

"Indeed, I fear it is very likely."

"Why?"

"Because of my unworthiness; and, therefore, I would not have you kneel while I stand."