“Dearest!” he said, in so low a voice that, the note of the curlew flying above them sounded loud and shrill by contrast.  “Dearest!—­for you are that to me!—­I will not press you.  I will be content to wait.  God knows you are right to hesitate!  Your love is too great, too precious a thing to be given to me without thought.  I’m not worthy to touch you—­but I love you!  I will wait.  You shall think of all I have said; and, let your answer be what it may, I won’t complain!  But—­Ida—­you mustn’t forget that I love you with all my heart and soul!”

She looked down at his handsome face, the face over which her lips had hovered only a short time since, and her lips moved.

“You—­you are good to me,” she said, in a faintly troubled voice.  “Yes, I know, I feel that.  Perhaps I ought to say ‘no!’”

“Don’t!” he said, almost fiercely.  “Wait!  Let me see you again—­you scarcely know me.  Ah, Ida, what can I do, how can I win your love?”

She drew her hands from his with a deep breath.

“I—­I will go now,” she said.  “Will you let me go—­alone?”

He rose and went towards the horses.  His own raised its head and seemed inclined to start, but stood uncertain and eventually remained quiet beside the chestnut.  Stafford brought them to where Ida still stood, her eyes downcast, her face pale.

With his own bridle over his arm he put her into the saddle, resisting even in that supreme moment the almost irresistible desire to take her in his arms.

She murmured a “Thank you,” as she slowly put on her left gauntlet.  He drew the other from her, and as she looked at him questioningly, he put it to his lips and thrust it under his waistcoat, over his heart.

The colour flooded her face, but the blush was followed by the old look of trouble and doubt.  She held out her ungloved right hand and he took it and held it for a moment, then raised it to his lips; but he did not kiss it.

“No!” he said, with stern repression.  “I will take nothing—­until you give it me.”

She inclined her head the very slightest, as if she understood, as if she were grateful; then letting her eyes rest on his with an inscrutable look, she spoke softly to the horse and rode away, with Donald and Bess clamouring joyously after her, as if they had found the proceedings extremely trying.

Stafford flung his arm across his horse, and leaning against it, looked after her, his eyes fixed wistfully on the slight, graceful figure, until it was out of sight; then he gazed round him as if he were suddenly returning from a new, mysterious region to the old familiar world.  Passion’s marvellous spell still held him, he was still throbbing with a half-painful ecstasy of her nearness, of the touch of her hand, the magic of her voice.

For the first time he was in love.  In love with the most exquisite, the most wonderful of God’s divine creatures.  He knew, as he had said, that her answer meant life or death to him, the life of infinite, nameless joy, the death of life in death.