“Nay, say no more —­ say no more.  I comprehend it all too well,” replied Wendot, not without a natural though only momentary feeling of bitterness at the thought of what this pledge was already costing him, but his native generosity and sweetness of temper soon triumphed over all besides, and he said with his peculiarly bright and steadfast smile, “You have judged rightly and well for us both, my lord.  Did I but drag her down to sorrow and shame, it would be the bitterest drop in a bitter cup.  A man placed as I am is better without ties.”

“Also the days will soon pass by, and the time will come when this charge ceases.  Then if the Lady Gertrude be still mistress of her hand and heart, and if the Lord of Dynevor comes to try his fate, methinks, by what I have seen and heard, that he may chance to get no unkindly answer to his wooing.”

Wendot made no reply, but only blushed deeply as he moved away.  He scarce knew whether he were glad or sorry that Gertrude came out to meet him, and drew him towards the little group which had gathered in a deep embrasure of the window.  Joanna, Alphonso, and Griffeth were there.  They had been eagerly questioning the younger lad about life at Dynevor, and what they would do when they were at home all together.  Joanna was longing to travel that way and lodge a night there; and Gertrude was eloquent in praise of the castle, and looked almost wistfully at Wendot to induce him to add his voice to the general testimony.  But he was unwontedly grave and silent, and her soft eyes filled with tears.  She knew that he was heavy hearted, and it cut her to the quick; but he did not speak of his trouble, and only Alphonso ventured to allude to it, and that was by one quick sentence as he was taking his departure at bedtime.

“Wendot,” he said earnestly, “I will ever be thy friend.  Fear not.  My father denies me nothing.  Thy trial may be a hard one, but thou wilt come nobly forth from it.  I will see that harm to thee comes not from thy generosity.  Only be true to us, and thou shalt not suffer.”

Wendot made no reply, but the words were like a gleam of sunshine breaking through the clouds; and one more such gleam was in store for him on the morrow, when he bid a final adieu to Gertrude before the general departure for Dynevor.

“I have my half gold coin, Wendot.  I shall look at it every day and think of thee.  I am so happy that we have seen each other once again.  Thou wilt not forget me, Wendot?”

“Never so long as I live,” he answered with sudden fervour, raising the small hand he held to his lips.  “And some day, perchance, Lady Gertrude, I will come to thee again.”

“I shall be waiting for thee,” she answered, with a mixture of arch sweetness and playfulness that he scarce knew whether to call childlike confidence or maiden trust.  But the look in her eyes went to his heart, and was treasured there, like the memory of a sunbeam, for many long days to come.