“Certainly not. Besides, how many times d’you think the man all tattered and torn tried to kiss the maiden all forlorn before she let him do it?” “Once,” said Pendragon, putting his arms about her and drawing her on to her feet. As she slid down from the stone— “I never said you could move,” said Audrey de Lisle. “You shouldn’t ’ve made me a King,” shouted her squire, and with that he kissed her. “I wanted you to do that the very first day,” whispered the girl. “But if you had I’d never have stayed at Sundial.” She slid an arm round his neck. “And you say you didn’t figure . . .” She threw up her glorious head and smiled into his eyes. “Why, my blessed, _you made it_. It’s not been a nursery rhyme—it’s been my love-story.” “Audrey, Audrey, my darling. . . .” “When I saw the Arms that morning, I nearly fainted. Then I went all cold, to think that you—_my_ Prince Charming—were really the wicked lord. . . . The moment you let me go I saw my mistake. In a flash I realized that you were playing some game. Then I got all mad to think that you’d kept it from me—so I started in too. . . . But I nearly gave it away that evening at Domesday Mill, when you said he had watery eyes. It—it was so libellous, Christopher. . . .” Pendragon smiled. “My beautiful lady,” he said, “that came to me out of the blue. There never was, I believe, such a fairy-tale. I was afraid to kiss you for fear of breaking things up. You know. The Sleeping Beauty. If I waked you with a kiss, you might kiss me back: but then, again, you mightn’t. And then in the end I did . . . and the worst happened.” “But you didn’t, dear,” said Audrey. “If you had . . .” Pendragon sighed. “Of course,” he said, “I shall never understand women.” Audrey put up her mouth and closed her eyes. “Real men don’t,” she murmured. “That’s why I love you so.” * * * * * Sunday morning came, and the great sun with it. The day was all glorious. Excitement in Sundial was running high. All that the village knew was that Warthog was proved a rogue, and that the Lord of the Manor would take his rightful seat that August morning. The tiny church was packed ten minutes before the hour. At five minutes to eleven the private door was opened, and amid a breathless silence a well-dressed but familiar figure appeared in the Pendragon pew. Sundial’s heart stood still. Then— “Why, it’s Mister John,” piped an old, tremulous voice. Pent-up feelings vented themselves in an hysterically explosive ‘Sh-h-h.’ Pendragon rose to his feet and glanced down the church. Then he stepped down from the chancel and passed to Mrs. Trelawney and Miss de Lisle. A whisper, and the ladies rose and preceded him to his family pew. The ranks of Sundial ‘could scarce forbear to cheer.’