Silence, and a sudden, sickening dread, a growing fear, insomuch that I made shift to climb the ladder and, lifting heavy hand, rapped upon the trap door: "Diana--O Diana--are you there?" An inarticulate cry, and next moment the trap door was lifted, revealing a square of vivid light, and in this radiant glory--Diana's face. "Diana," said I, wiping the blood from my eyes the better to behold her loveliness, "Diana--when will you--marry me?" "O Peregrine--oh, my beloved!" And down to me she reached her strong and gentle arms to draw me up from the darkness into the glory of her presence. CHAPTER IV I WAIT FOR A CONFESSION "O Peregrine! My dear--how they have hurt you!" She was ministering to my scratches and abrasions, and I, sitting on the old hay-pile, watched her, joying in the gentle touch of her white, dexterous hands, her sweet motherliness and all the warm, vital beauty of her. "Child," said I, "don't tremble so--the beasts are gone!" "Yes, I know--I heard everything, Peregrine. And you down there--all alone--to fight them in the dreadful dark! And I once dared to call you coward!" "So I was, Diana. So I am. It was you gave me courage, then and now--you and--my love for you." "Your love?" she whispered, and now the tremor was in her voice also. "It was Love guided me here to-night, Diana--brought me back to you--for ever and always if--if you will have it so." "O Peregrine," she sighed, leaning towards me, "my Peregrine, then your love for me is not dead as I feared?" "Nor ever can be," I answered, very conscious of her nearness, "surely true love is immortal, Diana." "You speak rather like a book, Peregrine." "I quote from your own letter, Diana." "And this--strange love of yours, Peregrine, that I feared dead, has come to life again because you know at last how cruelly you misjudged me--you are here because you have found out?" "I have found out nothing." "Then--oh--why, then, you still think evil of me?" "I love you!" said I, leaning towards her, for she had drawn from me a little. "I love you--more than ever, I think, yes, indeed it must be so--because I am here to shield you with my care--to make you my wife." "Wife?" she whispered, shrinking yet farther from me. "Your wife? You would marry me in my--vileness--doubting my honour?" "Your honour shall be mine, henceforth." Now at this she sat back to regard me beneath wrinkled brows; once her scarlet mouth quivered, though whether she would weep or no I knew not, but before the sweet directness of her eyes I felt strangely abashed and knew again that old consciousness of futility. "O Peregrine," she sighed at last, "how very--foolishly blind you are, how hopelessly masculine, and how nobly generous--my proud gorgio gentleman!" And stooping, she caught my hand ere I knew and kissed it passionately. "O Diana!" I exclaimed, very ill at ease. "Why do--so?"