He, too, had lost his tongue. "Queen Mab! I knew that you were coming."
Her eyes were timid and her tongue tied. She was like a rueful child.
"How did you come, my dear?"
"I don't know."
"You came last night?"
"Ah, you knew me?"
"Well, Queen Mab?"
She had nothing to say.
"Oh, my dear, my dear," he asked her, "why are you come?"
"I can't tell you if you don't know." She looked at him, and he knew.
"You came to me--not because I love you?"
"No, no! Not for that!"
"You are beautiful beyond belief, Queen Mab. And you are the soul of
truth. My dear one, do you love me?"
She hung her head, and looked up from under her long lashes. He saw, not
heard, her answer.
He encircled her with his arm, and felt her trembling at his side. "My
dear," he said, "I was writing my Memoirs. Now we'll burn the book, for I
see that I am now going to be born."
She looked up at him laughing. She was the colour of a flushed rose. "My
bride," he said, and kissed her lips. She turned in his arm and clung to
him. The storm swept surging over her; passion long pent made her shiver
like a blown fire. They took their wild joy....
He led her by her hand to the shade of the valley, where the deep turf is
hardly ever dry.
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