Very slowly the rose-clad maid of honor let fall her gaze from the evening skies to the man before her; as slowly unclasped her hands so tightly locked behind her upraised head.  Her eyes were wide and filled with light, her bosom yet rose and fell quickly; in all her mien there was still wonder, grace supreme, a rich unfolding like the opening of a flower to the bliss of understanding.  Trembling, her hand went down, and resting on his shoulder, gave him her accolade.  She bowed herself towards him; a knot of rosy velvet, loosened from her dress, fell upon the turf beside his knee.  Ferne caught up the ribbon, pressed it to his lips and thrust it in the breast of his doublet.  Rising, he took her in his arms and they kissed.  Her breath came pantingly.

“Oh, I envied her!” she cried.  “Now I know that I envied while I blessed her—­that unknown Dione!”

“My lady and my only dear!” he said.  “Oh, Love is as the sun!  So the sunshine bide, let come what will come!”

“I rest in the sunshine!” she said.  “Oh, Love is bliss ... but anguish too!  I see the white sails of your ships.”

She shuddered in his arms.  “All that go return not.  Ah, tell me that you will come back to me!”

“That will I do,” he answered, “an I am a living man.  If I die, I shall but wait for thee.  I see no parting of our ways.”

One hour was theirs.  Bread and wine, and flower and fruit, and meeting and parting it held for them.  Hand in hand they sat upon the grassy bank, and eyes met eyes, but speech came not often to their lips.  They looked and loved, against the winter storing each moment with sweet knowledge, honeyed assurance.  Brave and fair were they both, gallant lovers in a gallant time, changing love-looks in a Queen’s garden, above the silver Thames.  A tide of amethyst fell the sunset light; the swallows circled overhead; a sound was heard of singing voices; violet knight and rose-colored maid of honor, they came at last to say farewell.  That night in the lit Palace, amid the garish crowd, they might see each other again, might touch hands, might even have slight speech together, but not as now could heart speak to heart.  They rose from the green bank, and as the sun set, as the moon came out, and the singing ceased, and the world grew ashen, they said what lovers say on the brink of absence, and at the last they kissed good-by.

III

They were not far north of the Canary Islands, when the sky, which for several days had been overcast, grew very threatening, and the Mere Honour, the Cygnet, the Marigold, and the Star made ready to meet what fury the Lord should be pleased to loose upon them.  It came, a maniac unchained, and scattered the ships.  Darkness accompanied it, and the sea wrinkled beneath its feet.  The ships went here and went there; throughout the night they burned lights, and fired many great pieces of ordnance,—­not to prevail against their enemy, but to say each to the other:  “Here am I, my sister!  Go not too far, come not too near!” Their voices were as whispers to the shouting of their foe; beneath the rolling thunders the sound of cannon and culverin were of less account than the grating of pebbles in a furious surge.