“Yes, Sir Godwin; and she bade us desire of you that you would come to lead her to the Hall when she had finished making her prayers before the altar.” “I wonder,” mused Godwin, “whether I shall ever lead her from the altar to the Hall, or whether—I shall bide alone by the altar?” Still he thought it a good omen that she had bidden him thus, though some might have read it otherwise. Godwin entered the church, walking softly on the rushes with which its nave was strewn, and by the light of the lamp that burnt there always, saw Rosamund kneeling before a little shrine, her gracious head bowed upon her hands, praying earnestly. Of what, he wondered—of what? Still, she did not hear him; so, coming into the chancel, he stood behind her and waited patiently. At length, with a deep sigh, Rosamund rose from her knees and turned, and he noted by the light of the lamp that there were tear-stains upon her face. Perhaps she, too, had spoken with the Prior John, who was her confessor also. Who knows? At the least, when her eyes fell upon Godwin standing like a statue before her, she started, and there broke from her lips the words: “Oh, how swift an answer!” Then, recovering herself, added, “To my message, I mean, cousin.” “I met the women at the door,” he said. “It is kind of you to come,” Rosamund went on; “but, in truth, since that day on Death Creek I fear to walk a bow-shot’s length alone or in the company of women only. With you I feel safe.” “Or with Wulf?” “Yes; or with Wulf,” she repeated; “that is, when he is not thinking of wars and adventures far away.” By now they had reached the porch of the church, to find that the snow was falling fast. “Let us bide here a minute,” he said; “it is but a passing cloud.” So they stayed there in the gloom, and for a while there was silence between them. Then he spoke. “Rosamund, my cousin and lady, I come to put a question to you, but first—why you will understand afterwards—it is my duty to ask that you will give me no answer to that question until a full day has passed.” “Surely, Godwin, that is easy to promise. But what is this wonderful question which may not be answered?” “One short and simple. Will you give yourself to me in marriage, Rosamund?” She leaned back against the wall of the porch. “My father—” she began. “Rosamund, I have his leave.” “How can I answer since you yourself forbid me?” “Till this time to-morrow only. Meanwhile, I pray you hear me, Rosamund. I am your cousin, and we were brought up together—indeed, except when I was away at the Scottish war, we have never been apart. Therefore, we know each other well, as well as any can who are not wedded. Therefore, too, you will know that I have always loved you, first as a brother loves his sister, and now as a man loves a woman.” “Nay, Godwin, I knew it not; indeed, I thought that, as it used to be, your heart was other-where.” “Other-where? What lady—?” “Nay, no lady; but in your dreams.” “Dreams? Dreams of what?”