“But if you go away?” “I’m bound to tell you of my whereabouts only on St John Baptist’s Feast.” “The right to know it on other days--would that be recognised in return for a homage, Marchesa?” “One homage for so many letters?” “I had sooner there were no letters--and daily homages.” “You take too many obligations--and too lightly.” “For every one I gain the recognition of a right.” “The richer you grow in rights then, the harder you must work!” “I would have so many rights accorded me as to be no better than a slave!” cried Lynborough. “Yet, if I have not one, still I have nothing.” She spoke no word, but looked at him long and searchingly. She was not nervous now, but proud. Her look bade him weigh words; they had passed beyond the borders of merriment, beyond the bandying of challenges. Yet her eyes carried no prohibition; it was a warning only. She interposed no conventional check, no plea for time. She laid on him the responsibility for his speech; let him remember that he owed her homage. They grew curious and restless on the lawn; the private audience lasted long, the homage took much time in paying. “A marvellous thing has come to me,” said Lynborough, speaking slower than his wont, “and with it a great courage. I have seen my dream. This morning I came here not knowing whether I should see it. I don’t speak of the face of my dream-image only, though I could speak till next St John’s Day upon that. I speak to a soul. I think our souls have known one another longer, ay, and better than our faces.” “Yes, I think it is so,” she said quietly. “Yet who can tell so soon?” “There’s a great gladness upon me because my dream came true.” “Who can tell so soon?” she asked again. “It’s strange to speak of it.” “It may be that some day--yes, some day soon--in return for the homage of my lips on your hand, I would ask the recognition of my lips’ right on your cheek.” She came up to him and laid her hand on his arm. “Suffer me a little while, my lord,” she said. “You’ve swept into my life like a whirlwind; you would carry me by assault as though I were a rebellious city. Am I to be won before ever I am wooed?” “You sha’n’t lack wooing,” he said quickly. “Yet haven’t I wooed you already--as well in my quarrel as in my homage, in our strife as in the end of it?” “I think so, yes. Yet suffer me a little still.” “If you doubt----” he cried. “I don’t think I doubt. I linger.” She gave her hand into his. “It’s strange, but I cannot doubt.” Lynborough sank again upon his knee and paid his homage. As he rose, she bent ever so slightly towards him; delicately he kissed her cheek. “I pray you,” she whispered, “use gently what you took with that.” “Here’s a heart to my heart, and a spirit to my spirit--and a glad venture to us both!” “Come on to the lawn now, but tell them nothing.” “Save that I have paid my homage, and received the recognition of my right?” “That, if you will--and that your path is to be--henceforward--Helena’s.”