Then hand in hand, the Duchess and my Beltane knelt together, and because he had no ring, needs must she give to him one of hers; so were they wed.

As one that dreamed, Beltane knelt there murmuring the responses, and thus knelt he so long that he started to feel a soft touch upon his cheek, and looking up, behold! they were alone.

“Dost dream, my lord?” she questioned, tender-voiced.

“Aye, verily,” he answered, “of the wonder of our love and thee, beloved, as I did see thee first within the thicket at Mortain, beautiful as now, though then was thy glorious hair unbound.  I dream of thine eyes beneath thy nun’s veil when I did bear thee in my arms from Thornaby—­but most do I dream of thee as Fidelis, and the clasp of thy dear arms within the dark.”

“But thou didst leave me in Mortain thicket despite my hair, Beltane!  And thou didst tell me mine eyes were not—­a nun’s eyes, Beltane—­”

“Wherefore this night do I thank God!” said he, drawing her close beside him on the bench.

“And for my arms, Beltane, thou didst think them man’s arms—­because they went bedight in mail, forsooth!”

“So this night shall they go bedight in kisses of my mouth! loose me this sleeve, I pray—­”

“Nay, Beltane,—­I do beseech thee—­”

“Art not my wife?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Then loose me thy sleeve, Helen.”

So blushing, trembling, needs must she obey and yield her soft arms to his caresses and hide her face because of their round, white nakedness.

But in a while she spake, low and very humble.

“Dear my lord, the moon doth set already, methinks!”

“Aye, but there is no cloud to dim her glory to-night, Helen!”

“But the hour waxeth—­very late, my lord and I—­must away.”

“Aye, beloved, let us go.”

“Nay my lord, I—­O dear Beltane—­”

“Wife!” said he, “dear my love and wife, have I not waited long enough?”

Hand in hand they walked amid the flowers with eyes only for each other until came they to a stair and up the stair to a chamber, rich with silk and arras and sweet with spicy odours, a chamber dim-lighted by a silver lamp pendent from carven roof-beam, whose soft glow filled the place with shadow.  Yet even in this tender dimness, or because of it, her colour ebbed and flowed, her breath came apace and she stood before him voiceless and very still save for the sweet tumult of her bosom.

Then Beltane loosed off his sword and laid it upon the silken couch, but perceiving how she trembled, he set his arm about her and drew her to the open lattice where the moon made a pool of glory at their feet.

“Dost fear me, Helen?”

“Nay, my lord, I—­think not.”

“Then wherefore dost tremble?”

“Ah, Beltane, thou methinks dost—­tremble also?”

Then Beltane knelt him at her feet and looked upon her loveliness with yearning eyes, yet touched her not: