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“Thou hast heard of my life and of my misfortunes, but all hath not been told thee. Grant me but patience for a moment, that I myself may tell thee all.”

And she saith unto him, “Say on.”

So he spoke and said, “There is much that I may not tell thee, yet part I will tell thee, for that I must. Thou hast heard how that my wife–” But he could not continue, so dropped his face into my lady’s hands, and she waited for him, saying softly,

“I will understand what thou dost not say. Be not troubled, but speak out thy soul to me;” and presently he told her more. As I do live, never listened I to sadder story. So piteous it was that my tears fell down like rain, and I was sore afraid that my sighing would discover my whereabouts. But the Almighty is merciful even to sinners, and I remained unnoted. ‘Twas the old tale of love and treachery; a false wife and a friend who was a villain.

The earl had killed the man (but in fair encounter), and his wife he had brought back, never to be as husband to her more, but to preserve her from further sin. And I do maintain that ’twas a noble act, and I did quite forgive him the blood of his betrayer. Methought my lady did forgive him too, for she did but stroke his hair softly, saying ever and anon, “Poor soul!” or “God help thee!” And by-and-by he lifted his face, and saith, “But the worst is yet to tell thee.”

And she said again, “Say on.”

And he trembled again, but spoke out bravely: “My wife yet lives. It was she who bound thy wounds.”

Now at this I thought to see my lady swoon; but she only smiled, though better had one seen her weep than smile in such wise. And she saith, “I have known that these many days;” and she leaned towards him, and placed both hands upon his head, saying, “Weep not. I hold thee guiltless. Do not weep.”

But he sobbed, clasping her knees, as one whose heart is broken, saying now and again below his breath, “O God! O God!”

If there be this side the stars a more awful sight than the sight of a strong man in tears, God grant I may ne’er behold it, for surely I should die of pity. Doth it please God that I resemble Abraham in the matter of age, if in none other, ne’er will that scene fade from my memory–my lady, so wan and white and narrow, like a tall lily over which a rude wind hath swept, and at her knee the strong man, bowed as a little lad that saith his prayers, clasping her kirtle and her hands, as though one sinking in deep waters were to grasp at a floating stem of flowers for support. And after a while, when the violence of his grief was spent, he saith unto her,

“I sail for Spain with Essex on the morrow, as thou knowest; but it doth remain for me to tell thee why I go. It is for that I think the lad, thy brother, hath been a prisoner of war these many years, and I go to bring him to thee.”

And she sat and looked at him as though her heart had leaped from her breast into his body; but she spake no words save only, “God keep thee; God go with thee.”

And suddenly he saith unto her, as though the words would forth,

“I loved thee from the moment that I saw thee. Let me but tell thee that.”

She whispered, saying, “It was even so with me.” And he lifted his eyes and looked at her. Then fled I, as though I had drawn away the veil from the sanctuary, for I thought that God would surely smite me for having beheld that look.