“The rose, the rose has faded, Dione,” said the ardent voice.  “Look how dead it lies upon my palm!  But bend and breathe upon it, and it will bloom again!  Ah, that day at Penshurst! when I sought you and they told me you were gone—­a brother ill and calling for you—­a guardian, no friend of mine, to whose house I had not access!  And then the Queen must send for me, and there was service to be done—­service which got me my knighthood....  The stream between us widened.  At first I thought to span it with a letter, and then I wrote it not.  ’Twas all too frail a bridge to trust my hope upon.  For what should have the paper said? I am so near a stranger to thee that scarce have we spoken twice together—­therefore love me!  I am a man who hath done somewhat in the busy world, and shall, God willing, labor once again, but now a cloud overshadows me—­therefore love me!  I have no wealth or pomp of place to give thee, and I myself am of those whom God hath bound to wander—­therefore love me!  I chanced upon thee beside a fountain ringed with roses, gray with mist; the sun came out and I saw thee, golden in the golden light—­therefore love me! Ah no! you would have answered—­I know not what.  Therefore I waited, for I have at times a strange patience, a willingness to let Fate guide me.  Moreover, I ever thought to meet you, to speak with you face to face again, but it fell not so.  Was I with the court, the country claimed you; went I north or west, needs must I hear of you a lovely star within that galaxy I had left.  Thrice were we in company together—­cursed spite that gave us only time for courtly greeting, courtly parting!”

The voice came nearer, came very near:  “Have I said that I wrote not to you?  Ay, but I did, my only dear!  And as I wrote, from the court, from the camp, from my poor house of Ferne, I said:  ’This will tell her how in her I reverence womankind,’ and, ’These are flowers for her coronal—­will she not know it among a thousand wreaths?’ and, ’This, ah, this, will show her how deeply now hath worked the arrow!’ and, ’Now she cannot choose but know—­her soul will hear my soul cry!’ And that those letters might come to your eyes, I, following the fashion, sealed them only with feigned names, altered circumstance.  All who ran might read, but the heartbeat was for your ear ...  Dione!  Didst never guess?”

She answered in a still voice without moving:  “It may be that my soul guessed....  If it did so, it was frightened and hid its guess.”

“I have told you,” said the man.  “But, ah, what am I more to you now than on that morn at Penshurst—­a stranger!  I know not—­even you may love another....  But no, I know that you do not.  As I was then, so am I now, save that I have served the Queen again, and that cloud I spoke of is overpast.  I must go forth to-morrow to seek, to find, to win, to lose—­God He knoweth what!  I would go as your knight avowed, your favor in my helm, your kiss like holy water on my brow.  See, I kneel to you for some sign, some charm to make my voyage good!”