The sound of his voice was like a stone cast into still water. The rapt peace of her look was broken into an eddy of conflicting emotions. Amazement was there and a swift joy, which gave way almost before it could be named to something approaching dread, and that in turn yielded place to wide-eyed wonder. With her hands clasped tightly over her breast, she stood looking down at him. “My lord?” she faltered. As one who spreads out his store, he held out his palms toward her. “Randalin, I have sought you to add to the payment of my debt the one thing that in my blindness I held back,—I have come to add my true love to the rest I lay before you.” As a flower toward the sun, she seemed to sway toward him, then drew back, her sweet mouth trembling softly. “I—I want not your pity,” she said brokenly. Still kneeling before her, he possessed himself of her hands and drew them down to his lips. “Is it thus, on his knee, that one offers pity?” he said. Holding the hands fast, he rose and stood before her. “Heart beloved of my heart, you were merciless to read the truth before. Look again, and take care that you read me as fairly now.” Despite his gentleness, there was a strength in his exaltation which would not be resisted. Turning shrinkingly, she looked into his eyes. In the gray-blue depths of her own he saw the shimmer of a dawning light, as when the evening star first breaks through a June sky, and gradually the star-splendor spread over her face, until it touched her parted lips. “You—love me—” she breathed, but her voice no longer made it a question. Still gazing into his eyes, she let him draw her closer and closer, till he had gathered her to his breast. CHAPTER XXIX. The Ring of The Coiled Snake He is happy Who for himself obtains Fame and kind words; Less sure is that Which a man must have In another’s breast. Hávamál. The murmur of the rain that was falling gently on the roses of the Abbey garden stole in through the open windows of Elfgiva’s bower and blended softly with the music of Candida’s lyre. Poring over the dingy scrolls spread out on the table before her, the Lady of Northampton yawned until she was moved to throw herself back among her cushions with a gesture of graceful surrender. “It seems that the Saints are going to take pity on me and shorten one of these endless days with a nap. Nurse, have a care for these scrolls. And if it happen that the King’s Marshal comes—Randalin! Where is Randalin?” Beyond Leonorine’s embroidery frame and the stool where Candida bent over her lyre, the length of the room away, a figure in iris-blue turned from the window by which it stood. “Here, lady. What is your need?” To place the speaker Elfgiva raised her head slightly, laughing as she let it sink back. “Watching for him already, and the sun but little past noon? For shame, moppet! Come here.”