They came by that stone gallery to a little terrace above the Privy Steps. A crescent moon hung low over the Lambeth marshes across the river. From a barge that floated gay with lights in mid-stream came a tinkle of lutes, and the sweet voice of a singing boy. A moment the lovers stood at gaze, entranced by the beauty of the soft, tepid September night, so subtly adapted to their mood. Then she fetched a sigh, and hung more heavily upon his arm, leaned nearer to his tall, vigorous, graceful figure. “Robin, Robin!” was all she said, but in her voice throbbed a world of passionate longing, an exquisite blend of delight and pain. Judging the season ripe, his arm flashed round her, and drew her fiercely close. For a moment she was content to yield, her head against his stalwart shoulder, a very woman nestling to the mate of her choice, surrendering to her master. Then the queen in her awoke and strangled nature. Roughly she disengaged herself from his arm, and stood away, her breathing quickened. “God’s Death, Robin!” There was a harsh note in the voice that lately had cooed so softly. “You are strangely free, I think.” But he, impudence incarnate, nothing abashed, accustomed to her gusty moods, to her alternations between the two natures she had inherited—from overbearing father and wanton mother—was determined at all costs to take the fullest advantage of the hour, to make an end of suspense. “I am not free, but enslaved—by love and worship of you. Would you deny me; Would you?” “Not I, but fate,” she answered heavily, and he knew that the woman at Cumnor was in her mind. “Fate will soon mend the wrong that fate has done—very soon now.” He took her hand, and, melted again from her dignity, she let it lie in his. “When that is done, sweet, then will I claim you for my own.” “When that is done, Robin?” she questioned almost fearfully, as if a sudden dread suspicion broke upon her mind. “When what is done?” He paused a moment to choose his words, what time she stared intently into the face that gleamed white in the surrounding gloom. “When that poor ailing spirit is at rest.” And he added: “It will be soon.” “Thou hast said the same aforetime, Robin. Yet it has not so fallen out.” “She has clung to life beyond what could have been believed of her condition,” he explained, unconscious of any sinister ambiguity. “But the end, I know, is very near—a matter but of days.” “Of days!” she shivered, and moved forward to the edge of the terrace, he keeping step beside her. Then she stood awhile in silence, looking down at the dark oily surge of water. “You loved her once, Robin?” she asked, in a queer, unnatural voice. “I never loved but once,” answered that perfect courtier. “Yet you married her—men say it was a love marriage. It was a marriage, anyway, and you can speak so calmly of her death?” Her tone was brooding. She sought understanding that should silence her own lingering doubt of him.