"Because--oh, my dear--because you would stoop to lift your poor, stained Diana from the depths and cover her shame with your love! Because, thinking me vile, you would still honour me with your name. Oh, my Peregrine, you love me more--much more than I ever dared hope--better than even you know!" And rising, she gave herself to my eager arms. "O Diana," I murmured, "how wonderful you are!" "Last time we met you called me--wanton!" she whispered. "I was mad!" cried I remorsefully. "And yet--" "And yet--you meant it, dear Peregrine! And tonight I am here upon your heart--oh, wonderful--kiss your wanton again--" "Ah--hush!" I pleaded. "Don't--don't say it." "Ah, Peregrine, beloved--don't think it!" "But Diana," I groaned, "oh, my Diana, I saw you with--" "Hush!" she whispered suddenly. "There is somebody moving down below--listen!" From the pitchy gloom beneath came a heavy tread and a deep, long-drawn sigh; but even so I knew a happiness beyond all expression to feel how she nestled closer into my embrace as if seeking protection there. "Are you afraid, my Diana?" "Nothing could ever frighten me--here!" she whispered. And then the place suddenly reechoed with a loud whinnying. "My horse--I had forgotten him!" said I. And then, as she stirred sighfully, I stooped and kissed her, ere, loosing her, I rose. "I'll go and make him comfortable for the night." "And I will make you a bed, Peregrine." "It will be like old times," said I. "Yes--though we didn't--kiss each other--then, Peregrine," said she, looking at me with a glory in her eyes. "Ah, no--not again--look at the candle, it will be out in a minute or two and I haven't another--so hurry, dear." Forthwith I descended into the dimness below and finding the horse, loosed off saddle and bridle; this done, I closed the doors and was making them as secure as might be when I heard her calling: "Be quick, Perry, the candle is going out!" So I climbed up the ladder and, drawing it after me, closed the trap--and as I did so, the light flickered and vanished; but, guided by her voice, I stumbled through the dark and, finding the hay-pile, lay down. And then, all at once, I began to tremble, for there rushed upon me the conviction that, lying thus beside me so near I might have touched her, yet hidden thus in the kindly dark, she was nerving herself to the confession of that which must be pain to speak and agony to hear; thus, tense and expectant, I stared upon the gloom, waiting--waiting for her voice and resolved that I would be merciful in my judgment of her. Thus moment after moment dragged by and I in a very fever of anticipation, waiting--listening--At last she stirred, but instead of the broken, pleading murmur I expected, I heard a long, blissful sigh, a rustle of the hay as she settled herself more cosily, and when she spoke her voice sounded actually slumberous: "Are you comfortable, Peregrine?" "Thank you--yes." "Yet you--sound very restless. What is it, dear?"