So home they went through the darkness and the cold, moaning wind, speaking no word, and entered the wide hall, where a great fire built in its centre roared upwards towards an opening in the roof, whence the smoke escaped, looking very pleasant and cheerful after the winter night without. There, standing in front of the fire, also pleasant and cheerful to behold, although his brow seemed somewhat puckered, was Wulf. At the sight of him Godwin turned back through the great door, and having, as it were, stood for one moment in the light, vanished again into the darkness, closing the door behind him. But Rosamund walked on towards the fire. “You seem cold, cousin,” said Wulf, studying her. “Godwin has kept you too long to pray with him in church. Well, it is his custom, from which I myself have suffered. Be seated on this settle and warm yourself.” She obeyed without a word, and opening her fur cloak, stretched out her hands towards the flame, which played upon her dark and lovely face. Wulf looked round him. The hall was empty. Then he looked at Rosamund. “I am glad to find this chance of speaking with you alone, Cousin, since I have a question to ask of you; but I must pray of you to give me no answer to it until four-and-twenty hours be passed.” “Agreed,” she said. “I have given one such promise; let it serve for both; now for your question.” “Ah!” replied Wulf cheerfully; “I am glad that Godwin went first, since it saves me words, at which he is better than I am.” “I do not know that, Wulf; at least, you have more of them,” answered Rosamund, with a little smile. “More perhaps, but of a different quality—that is what you mean. Well, happily here mere words are not in question.” “What, then, are in question, Wulf?” “Hearts. Your heart and my heart—and, I suppose, Godwin’s heart, if he has one—in that way.” “Why should not Godwin have a heart?” “Why? Well, you see just now it is my business to belittle Godwin. Therefore I declare—which you, who know more about it, can believe or not as it pleases you—that Godwin’s heart is like that of the old saint in the reliquary at Stangate—a thing which may have beaten once, and will perhaps beat again in heaven, but now is somewhat dead—to this world.” Rosamund smiled, and thought to herself that this dead heart had shown signs of life not long ago. But aloud she said: “If you have no more to say to me of Godwin’s heart, I will begone to read with my father, who waits for me.” “Nay, I have much more to say of my own.” Then suddenly Wulf became very earnest—so earnest that his great frame shook, and when he strove to speak he could but stammer. At length it all came forth in a flood of burning words.