“Is this how you would do, Monsieur—­Monsieur Ogre?—­sit stock still and glower at the poor thing as if you were between two minds as to loving her or eating her?”

I bent quickly, took her face between my hands and kissed her twice—­thrice.

“That is what I should do.  Now that you have made me what I was not before, are you satisfied?”

’Twas long before she gave me a word.  And when she spoke it was only to say:  “Are you not most monstrous ashamed, Monsieur John?”

“No!” said I.  “I am but a man, and you have roused that part of me that knows neither shame nor remorse.  I love you, Mistress Margery; do you hear?  I have loved you since that day in June when I came back from death’s door to find you sitting here to bear me company.”

She locked her fingers across her knee and would not look at me.

“But by your own showing you should be ashamed, sir,” she insisted.  “What of the dear friend to whom you would give up even the love of your mistress?”

“You may flay me as you will; I shall neither flinch nor go back from my word.  You are mine, and I shall give you up to no man.  I know I have not your love—­shall never have it.  Also, I know that I have gained an enemy where once I had a loving friend.  Richard Jennifer may kill me if he please—­he shall have the chance to do it; but you are mine and shall be whilst I live to claim and hold you.”

There was something less than anger in the blue-gray eyes when she let me see them; nay, I could have sworn there was a flash of playful mockery in them when she said:  “Dear heart! how masterful rough you have grown, all in a moment, my Lord.”  And then the beautiful eyes filled and she said, “Poor Dick!” in a way to make me suffer all the torments of that old myth-king who could never quaff the water that was ever rising to his lips.

“Aye, you may love him, if you must and will,” I gloomed.  “God pity me!  I know you do love him.”

She looked up quickly.  “So you have said a dozen times before.  Tell me, Monsieur Oracle, how do you know it?”

“If I tell you, you will hate me more than you do now.”

“That would be hard, indeed,” she murmured.  “Yet I would hear you say it.”

“Listen, then:  once, when we three were at the very door and threshold of death, you wrote the cry of your heart out on a bit of paper for a leave-taking and sent it to the man you loved.  You said, ’Though you must needs believe my love is pledged to your dear friend and mine, ’tis yours, and yours alone.’  Were not these your very words?”

Her “yes” was but the lightest whisper, but I heard it and went on.  “That is all, save this; the Indian bearer of your letter blundered and gave it me instead of Dick.”

She looked me full in the eyes and my soul went all afire.  Then she laid her cheek against my knee and I heard her dear voice as it had been a chime of sweet-toned joy-bells: