“Mayhap,” he answered, “’tis because you once minded me o’ the scabious flowers, child. See where they bloom all around us, sweet things! Do not tread too hastily, Herminia, lest you crush and end their blooming. Haste not so, for here is a stile for you to climb, and yonder, bosomed i’ the green, is Alfriston spire.” “Aye, I thank heaven!” cried she. “And wherefore thy so fervent gratitude, child?” “To be rid of thy hated presence!” “Ah, Rose,” he sighed. “Alas, Herminia, how heavy thy foot is! See this poor flower you trample—’tis my heart!” And speaking, he stooped, put by her foot very gently, and plucked one of the scabious flowers she had trodden; fingering it tenderly, he placed it in her hand. “Take it, child!” he sighed; “cherish it for its own sweet sake. And for me and my so hated presence, I will deliver you, here and now.... But first, thy poor, pretty wrists? Show ’em to me!” “No!” she answered; “never to you, Sir John!” “Indeed, child, ’tis thy Derwent pleadeth, thy John o’ Gentleness.... Suffer me to see!” And, taking her hands, he lifted them whether she would or no. “I see no wounds,” quoth he, “nor mark or bruise; and yet who am I to judge the pretty things? And if they endured hurt, let this witness my sorrow.” So saying, he stooped and kissed them tenderly. “Thus, sweet Rose, thy Derwent leaveth thee. Now, had I been the ‘Wicked Dering’ and thou the proud Lady Barrasdaile, it had been ... thy hands, thine arms, thy lips ... thy very self! And now, farewell awhile, my Rose o’ love.” Saying which, Sir John bared his head, gave her his hand across the stile, and seating himself thereon watched her wistfully as she hurried away. But, being hidden from his view, my lady paused to glance at her wrists, flushing as though she felt his lips there yet; and finding she still held his scabious flower, tossed it angrily away, but, marking where it fell, took it up again, and having throned it amid the laces of her bodice, went her way, slow of foot and with eyes a-dream. CHAPTER XXXIII WHICH, AMONG OTHER SMALL MATTERS, TELLETH OF A SNUFF-BOX And now ensued days wherein Sir John seemingly idled, the Corporal took mysterious journeys both a-horse and afoot, and my Lady Herminia busied herself upon Sir Hector’s comfort; for, having visited his cottage and being horrified by his ideas of “homeliness,” she prepared for immediate action—that is to say, with lovely head tied up in a kerchief (laced cap, ringlets and all) against such accidentals as spiders, cobwebs and dust, she armed herself with a mop and Mr. William Thompson with soap, water and scrubbing-brush, and forthwith set about cleansing the Augean Stables. Accoutred thus, she was directing the floor-washing operations of Mr. Thompson in the small, tiled kitchen when Sir Hector ventured to open the door, whereupon Mr. Thompson, hitherto awed to dumb submission by my lady’s imperious presence, cast down his scrubbing-brush and lifted his voice in wailing protest: