’"Tell me this, tell me this,” she said, “was she the fool, or were you?”

I laughed.  “My girl,” I told her, “if I am a fool it is not for you to say so.  But I believe, for all that, that you are paying me a compliment.”  She did not comprehend me, so took refuge in a quip—­ tossing her head at me.

She said, “I wish your worship joy of my compliment.”

I took her.  “I intend that you shall do more than wish me joy, child.  I intend that you shall give it me, and be my joy.”

This altered her tune.  She quickly released herself and pointed to the victuals she had risked herself to get.  “Let us eat,” she said, “and talk afterwards.  Forgive me if I troubled you just now.  I have suffered and am a little over-wrought.  Forgive me.”

I kissed her again, she not forbidding me; we put our cloaks below that enormous figure of the Thinker, and sat down to our breakfast; we ate our sausages and drank our wine.  Colour came back into Virginia’s grave face, light danced in her eyes; she became more herself, but with an excitement latent within her which betrayed itself in little hasty acts of affection, quick movements, half caressing, half petulant—­as if she would soothe me, and, half way, change her mood and be minded to scratch.  I became interested, I wondered how long she would leave our affairs in doubt; rather unkindly, I held my tongue, just for the pleasure of seeing her make the next advance.  And then—­in spite of my curiosity—­fatigue began to creep over me.  I had been thirty-six hours awake, had bid an everlasting farewell to a mistress, restored, or done my best to restore, a banished wife to her husband’s arms, shot a man, saved a virgin’s honour, made matrimonial advances, run for my life.  Here was a good day and a half’s work.  After a profusion of yawns, which, try as I would, I could not stifle, I said, “Forgive me, my dear, if I go to sleep.  I find myself mortally tired—­and you must be in the same case.  Let us lie down here and rest ourselves.”

“Sleep, my lord, sleep,” said she, with beautiful, tender seriousness, and spread my cloak on a bench for me.  She took off my sword and knelt, as her custom of old had been, to kiss my hand.  I felt then that I must needs love this loving child.  I lifted her up, and, “Kneel no more to me, my girl,” I said.  “You and I are ruined together.  I cannot obey my father, who will disinherit me.  You are no better off.  Hunted animals don’t kneel to each other, but league themselves to face their persecutors.  Virginia, be mine!”

She said nothing, and would not meet my eyes.  I drew her to me, embraced her with my arm, kissed her cold lips.

“Do you know what I am doing, Virginia?” I said.  “Do you know what I need of you, my only friend?”

“Yes, Don Francis,” she said.  “You are making love to me, and it is your right.  I have never refused you, and never shall.  But you must not ask me to marry you.”