’Ah, best beloved,’ she said very gently, yet so that I could hear, ’fare thee well! So have I never said farewell before. But ever scornfully, being in fear of mine own heart’s treachery. Lie you there that wert the noblest man the sun shone on, of adversaries the most fearless, of enemies the most chivalrous, of friends the truest, of loves the sweetest—lie you there. Those that hated you were many. But there was one that loved you—ay, and loves you, and ever shall love you! Lie you there, heart that never feared aught but God and dishonour and a lie—heart that never took favour from man nor refused one to woman. See, I will touch your lips—those sweetest lips that never of my own will, have I touched before. The earth be kind to your body, sweet. The heavens receive your soul with honour, and the angels that warred with Satan and vanquished him, stand up at your entrance to give you room!’ She smoothed the cloth upon the face with mighty love in the caressing of her finger tips. ’Good-night, dear love,’ she said, lifting it for the last time and kissing his brow. ’It is sweet, even thus in death, to tell thee that I love thee!’ Then, when Marjorie had done bidding her love farewell, we lifted the crossed spears, and setting them again on the shoulders of men, we carried Gilbert of Bargany away. *CHAPTER XXVI* *DAYS OF QUIET* I ran back to bid Marjorie return with us to Culzean, where at least we could keep her safe. She stood where we had left her, looking at the place where her love had lain. The marks of the crossed spears and certain drops of blood alone remained on the snow. At the sound of my voice she started as from a dream. ’Ah, Launcelot,’ she said, looking at me strangely, as though I too had been dead and in a newer life had unexpectedly confronted her, ’do you think that I, who fear not fifty in the highway, fear one or two in the house of Auchendrayne? My work is not done there yet,’ she added; ’till it be, there I shall bide.’ And with that she mounted and rode away. Never did I see a cavalcade ride home in such fashion after a victory. There was not a man of us from Culzean but went with his head hanging down like a little whipped cur. And when we told Sir Thomas he was like to break his heart, for he was a kindly man, and had ever a great affection for Bargany. And Nell, when she heard it, went out and stopped the boys that played at ball and shouted in the tennis-court. Also, to keep them sober, she set them to learn their religion—of which, in common with all in that country side (save perhaps my master) they had great need. But strange to tell, after the grief for Bargany’s death was a little by-past among us, there befell the quietest and most gracious time that ever had been in the house of Culzean. It was like the coming of joy after the rain—the warm rain of pity which thawed our winter-frozen hearts.