Martin saw her spread her cloak on the bracken and set Fulk de Lisle’s sword in the ground at the head thereof. He turned away, and as he turned she called to him. “Martin, are you still thinking?” “Yes.” “And it is all so simple!” He heard her sigh, and his heart smote him. Then she said: “I am lonely. And I still have a fear that in the night men will break in and take you away.” “If God wills it, it will be so,” he answered her with obstinate sententiousness. She sat down on the bracken, untied her hair, shook it free, and began to comb it with a little ivory comb that she took from her gypsire. It was growing very dark now, and the stars were bright between the trees. Martin strode up and down, discovering a new torment in her silence, and in the darkness that seemed to be taking her from him. He could see her white hands moving, but her face was hidden by her hair. “Mellis!” He spoke to her at last, but she did not answer him. Martin went nearer, trying not to be troubled by her silence. “Mellis!” A passionate whisper came back to him. “You are breaking my heart. What does it matter? You shall not hear me humble myself again.” He slunk away, threw himself flat on the grass, utterly shaken and distraught. The silence of the Forest seemed heavy in his ears, for he was listening for some sound from Mellis, and he could not even hear her breathing. A kind of fury seized him. He tore up handfuls of grass, pressed his mouth against the earth. Why was this agony being thrust upon him? Had he not tried to deal honestly with his own heart? And he had wounded Mellis, humbled her, turned away from her love as though it were a poor thing easily abandoned. She was beginning to hate him; or perhaps her pride would never forgive. What could he say to her? Should he leave her while she slept? But that would be cowardly; he could not desert her till she was in the midst of friends. He sat up, staring toward where she was, for he thought he had heard a rustling of the bracken. But it was so dark now that he could not see Mellis, only the vague outline of the great tree with the stars studding the sky over it. Of a sudden Martin stopped breathing, every fiber of him tense and strained. It was not the rustling of the bracken that he had heard. The sound grew louder, less smothered, as though it was too bitter and poignant to be stifled. Mellis was weeping—weeping as though the pain could not be borne. Martin began to tremble. All his blood seemed to be rising to his throat. Then he uttered a strange, sharp cry, and went blindly through the darkness. “Mellis!” He was on his knees beside her. She was lying on her face, her arms spread out. “Mellis, I can’t bear it. Oh! my love!” She twisted around, threw her arms around him, and cried: “My man! My most dear!” _Chapter XLII_