“So shall it be, Winfrida.”

“Then, O dear Helen, as sign all is forgot and we lovers again, let us pledge each other, here and now—­to thy future happiness and glory.”

“Aye, be it so,” sighed the Duchess, “bring wine, for I am athirst.”

Then turned she to the lattice again and Winfrida went lightly on her errand.  Now, yet gazing upon the moon, the Duchess reached out and drew Beltane beside her.

“Dear my love,” she whispered, “in but a little hour I shall be thine:  art happy in the thought?  Nay,” she sighed, white hands against his mailed breast, “beloved, wait—­kiss me not again until the hour be passed.  Lean here thy golden head and look with me upon the splendour of the night.  See the pale moon, how placid and serene, how fair and stately she doth ride—­”

“So may thy life be in coming years!” said Beltane.

“And wilt love me ever, Beltane, no matter what betide?”

“Ever and always, so long as thou art Helen.  Nay, why dost tremble?”

“O my lord—­see yonder—­that cloud, how black—­see how it doth furtive creep upon the gentle moon—­”

“’Tis a long way hence, my Helen!”

“Yet will it come.  Ah, think you ’tis a portent?  O would the gentle Angelo were here—­and yet, an he were come—­methinks I might wish him hence—­for that, loving thee so, yet am I a maid, and foolish—­ah, who is here—­not Angelo so soon?  What, ’tis thou, Winfrida?  Welcome—­bring hither the goblet.”

So came Winfrida, and falling on her knee gave the goblet into her lady’s hand, who, rising, turned to Beltane looking on him soft-eyed across the brimming chalice.

“Lord and husband,” she breathed—­“now do I drink to thy glory in arms, to our future, and to our abiding love!” So the Duchess raised the goblet to her lips.  But lo! even as she drank, the thick, black cloud began to engulf the moon, quenching her radiant light in its murky gloom.  So the Duchess drank, and handed the goblet to Beltane.

“To thee, my Helen, whom only shall I love until death and beyond!”

Then Beltane drank also, and gave the cup to Winfrida:  but, even as he did so, the Duchess uttered a cry and pointed with hand a-tremble: 

“O Beltane, the moon—­the moon that was so bright and glorious—­’tis gone, the cloud hath blotted it out!  Ah, Beltane, what doth this portend?  Why do I tremble thus because the moon is gone?”

“Nay, my beloved,” quoth Beltane, kissing those slender fingers that trembled upon his lip and were so cold—­so deadly cold, “dear Helen, it will shine forth again bright and radiant as ever.”

“Yet why is my heart so cold, Beltane, and wherefore do I tremble?”

“The night grows chill, mayhap.”

“Nay, this cold is from within.  O, I would the moon would shine!”

“Nay, let us speak of our future, my Helen—­”