"I love you," he repeated. "Five years since This thing began between us: every day Oh sweet, the thought of you has made me wince; The thought of you, my sweet, the look, the way. It’s only you, whether I work or pray, You and the hope of you, sweet you, dear you. I never spoke before; now it has broken through. "Oh, my beloved, can you care for me?" She shook her head. "Oh, hush, oh, Lion dear, Don’t speak of love, for it can never be Between us two, never, however near. Come on, my friend, we must not linger here." White to the lips she spoke; he saw her face White in the darkness by him in the windy place. "Mary, in time you could, perhaps," he pleaded. "No," she replied, "no, Lion; never, no." Over the stars the boughs burst and receded. The nobleness of Love comes in Love’s woe. "God bless you then, beloved, let us go. Come on," he said, "and if I gave you pain, Forget it, dear; be sure I never will again." They stepped together down the ride, their feet Slipped on loose stones. Little was said; his fate, Staked on a kingly cast, had met defeat. Nothing remained but to endure and wait. She was still wonderful, and life still great. Great in that bitter instant side by side, Hallowed by thoughts of death there in the blinded ride. He heard her breathing by him, saw her face Dim, looking straight ahead; her feet by his Kept time beside him, giving life a grace; Night made the moment full of mysteries. "You are beautiful," he thought; "and life is this: Walking a windy night while men are dying, To cry for one to come, and none to heed our crying." "Mary," he said, "are you in love with him, With Michael? Tell me. We are friends, we three." They paused to face each other in the dim. "Tell me," he urged. "Yes, Lion," answered she; "I love him, but he does not care for me. I trust your generous mind, dear; now you know, You, who have been my brother, how our fortunes go. "Now come; the message waits." The heavens cleared, Cleared, and were starry as they trod the ride. Chequered by tossing boughs the moon appeared; A whistling reached them from the Hall House side; Climbing, the whistler came. A brown owl cried. The whistler paused to answer, sending far That haunting, hunting note. The echoes laughed Aha! Something about the calling made them start. Again the owl note laughed; the ringing cry Made the blood quicken within Mary’s heart. Like a dead leaf a brown owl floated by. "Michael?" said Lion. "Hush." An owl’s reply Came down the wind; they waited; then the man, Content, resumed his walk, a merry song began. "Michael," they cried together. "Michael, you?" "Who calls?" the singer answered. "Where away? Is that you, Mary?" Then with glad halloo The singer ran to meet them on the way. It was their Michael; in the moonlight grey, They made warm welcome; under tossing boughs, They met and told the fate darkening Ryemeadows’ House.