“My letter told you my state of mind.  At least it told you of my intention to come.  I—­I fear that I do not understand you,” said John.

“I mean,” she replied, with a saucy, fluttering little laugh as she looked up from her conflict with the entangled key, “I mean that—­that you don’t know what I mean.  But here is the key at last, and—­and—­you may, if you wish, come to this side of the gate.”

She stepped forward to unlock the gate with an air that seemed to say, “Now, John, you shall have a clear field.”

But to her surprise she found that the lock had been removed.  That discovery brought back to John his wandering wits.

“Mistress Dorothy,” he cried in tones of alarm, “I must not remain here.  We are suspected and are sure to be discovered.  Your father has set a trap for us.  I care not for myself, but I would not bring upon you the trouble and distress which would surely follow discovery.  Let us quickly choose another place and time of meeting.  I pray you, sweet lady, meet me to-morrow at this time near the white cliff back of Lathkil mill.  I have that to say to you which is the very blood of my heart.  I must now leave you at once.”

He took her hand, and kissing it, started to leave through the open gate.

The girl caught his arm to detain him.  “Say it now, John, say it now.  I have dreamed of it by night and by day.  You know all, and I know all, and I long to hear from your lips the words that will break down all barriers between us.”  She had been carried away by the mad onrush of her passion.  She was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain, and she spoke because she could not help it.

“I will speak, Dorothy, God help me!  God help me, I will speak!” said John, as he caught the girl to his breast in a fierce embrace.  “I love you, I love you!  God Himself only knows how deeply, how passionately!  I do not know.  I cannot fathom its depths.  With all my heart and soul, with every drop of blood that pulses through my veins, I love you—­I adore you.  Give me your lips, my beauty, my Aphrodite, my queen!”

“There—­they—­are, John,—­there they are.  They are—­all yours—­all yours—­now!  Oh, God! my blood is on fire.”  She buried her face on his breast for shame, that he might not see her burning eyes and her scarlet cheeks.  Then after a time she cared not what he saw, and she lifted her lips to his, a voluntary offering.  The supreme emotions of the moment drove all other consciousness from their souls.

“Tell me, Dorothy, that you will be my wife.  Tell me, tell me!” cried John.

“I will, I will, oh, how gladly, how gladly!”

“Tell me that no power on earth can force you to marry Lord Stanley.  Tell me that you will marry no man but me; that you will wait—­wait for me till—­”