As she sat often beside him, Flavian won the whole romance from her, gradual as glistening threads of silk drawn from a scarlet purse. She waxed very solemn over her tale, was timid at times, and exceeding sorrowful for all her passion. Some shadowy fear seemed to companion her beside the couch, some wraith prophetic of a tragic end. She loved the man, yet feared her love, even as it had been a sword shimmering above his head. Peril compassed them like an angry sea; she heard the bombards thundering in the meadows. "Ah, sire," she said to him one morning, as she thrust the flowers she had gathered in the garden into a brazen bowl, "I am heavy at heart. Who shall pity me?" He turned towards her on his cushions with a smile that was not prophetic of the tomb. "Do I weary you?" "Ah no, not that." "Why then are you sad?" She held up a white hand in the gloom of the room, her hair falling like a black cloud upon her bosom. "Listen," she said to him. "I am not deaf." "The thunder of war." "Well, well, my heart, should I fear it?" "It is I who fear." "Ah," he said, taking her hand into his bosom, "put such fears far from you. We shall not end this year in dust." A week passed and the man was on the walls again, bold and ruddy as a youthful Jove. Seven days had gone, swelling with their hours the great concourse in the meadows. Pikes had sprouted on the hills like glistening corn, to roll and merge into the girding barrier of steel. The disloyal south had gathered to Fulviac before Gambrevault like dust in a dry corner in the month of March. A great host teemed betwixt the river and the cliffs. Through all, the rack and thunder of the siege went on, drowning the sea’s voice, flinging a storm-cloud over the stubborn walls. In Gambrevault men looked grim, and muttered of succour and the armies of the King. Yet Flavian was content. He had taken a transcendent spirit into his soul; he lived to music; drank love and chivalry like nectar from the gods. The woman’s nearness made each hour a chalice of gold. He possessed her red heart, looked deep into her eyes, put her slim hands into his bosom. Her voice haunted him like music out of heaven. He was a dreamer, a Lotos-eater, whose brain seemed laden with all the perfumes of the East. Ready was he to drain the purple wine of life even to the dregs, and to find death in the cup if the Fates so willed it. And Fulviac? War had held a poniard at his throat, turning him to the truth with the threat of steel. Grim and implacable, he stalked the meadows, bending his brows upon the towers of Gambrevault. This girl of the woods was no more a dream to him, but supple love, ardent flesh, blood-red reality. Lean, leering thoughts taunted the lascivious fears within his brain. His moods were silent yet tempestuous. Gambrevault mocked him. Vengeance burnt in his palm like a globe of molten iron.