He laughed, too. Since the dawn of time, women have retorted thus upon brave men too modest of their doings; and since the first woman found the trick, it has never failed to please man. But love needs not novelty, for he himself is always young; the stars of night are not less fair in our eyes because men knew the 'sweet influence of the Pleiades' in Job's day, nor is the scent of new-mown hay less delicate because all men love it. The old is the best, even in love, which is young. "Say what you will," answered Gilbert, presently, "we are together to-day." "And nothing else matters," said Beatrix. "Not even that it is two months since I have seen you, and that I have been ill, or, at least, half crippled, by that fall. It is all forgotten." He looked at her, not quite understanding, for as she spoke her eyebrows were raised a little, with her own expression, half sad, half laughing at herself. "I wish I could see you more often," answered Gilbert. Her little birdlike laugh disconcerted him. "Indeed, I am in earnest," he said. "And yet when you are in earnest, you do much harder things," answered Beatrix, and at once the sadness had the better of the laughter in her face. "Oh, Gilbert, I wish we were back in England in the old days." "So do I!" "Oh, no! You do not. You say so to please me, but you cannot make it sound true. You are a great man now. You are Sir Gilbert Warde, the Guide of Aquitaine. It is you, and you only, who are leading the army, and you will have all the honour of it. Would you go back to the old times when we were boy and girl? Would you, if you could?" "I would if I could." He spoke so gravely that she understood where his thoughts were, and that they were not all for her. For a few moments she looked down in silence, pulling at the fingers of her glove, and once she sighed; then, without looking up, she spoke, in her sweet, low voice. "Gilbert, what are we to each other? Brother and sister?" He started, again not understanding, and fancying that she was setting up the Church's canon between them, which he now knew to be no unremovable impediment. "You are no more my sister than your tirewoman there can be," he answered, more warmly than he had spoken yet. "I did not mean that," she said sadly. "I do not understand, then." "If you do not, how can I tell you what I mean?" She glanced at him and then looked away quickly, for she was blushing, and was ashamed of her boldness. "Do you mean that I love you as I might a sister?" asked Gilbert, with the grave tactlessness of a thoroughly honest man. The blush deepened in her cheek, and she nodded slowly, still looking away. "Beatrix!" "Well?" She would not turn to him. "What have I done that you should say such a thing?" "That is it!" she answered regretfully. "You have done great things, but they were not for me." "Have I not told you how I have thought of you day after day, hoping that you might think well of my deeds?"