two days had passed since the secret assembly in the house of sforza, gonfaloniere of gilderoy. they had buried duessa and balthasar by night in the rose garden, by the light of a single lantern, with the fallen petals for a pall. it was the evening before the day when the land should rise in arms to overthrow feudal injustice and oppression. on the morrow the great cliff would be desolate, its garrison marching through the black pine woods on avalon and geraint.

towards eve, when the sky was clear as a single sapphire, fulviac came from his parlour seeking yeoland, to find her little chamber empty. a strange smile played upon his face as he looked round the room with crucifix, embroidery frame, and prayer-desk, with rosary hung thereon. he picked up her lute, thrummed the strings, and broke broodingly into the sway of some southern song:

"ah, woman of love,

with the stars in the night,

i see thee above

in a circlet of light.

on the west's scarlet scutcheon

i mark thy device;

and the shade of the forest

makes gloom of thine eyes,

god's twilight

to me."

he ended the stanza, kissed the riband, and set the lute down with a certain quaint reverence. the postern stood open and admonished him. he passed out down the cliff stairway to the forest.

an indescribable peace pervaded the woods, a supreme silence such as the shepherd on the hills knows when the stars beckon to his soul. fulviac walked slowly and thought the more. he felt the altitude of the forest stillness as of miles of luminous, windless æther; he felt the anguishing pathos of a woman's face; he felt the strangeness of the new philosophy that appealed to his heart. nothing is more fascinating than watching a spiritual upheaval in one's own soul; watching some great power breaking up the crust of custom and habit; pondering the while on the eternal mysteries that baffle reason.

he found yeoland amid the pines. she had been to the forest grave and was returning towards the cliff when the man met her. she seemed whiter than was her wont, her dark eyes looking solemn and shadowy under their sweeping lashes. she seemed marvellously fair, marvellously pure and fragile, as she came towards him under the trees.

something in fulviac's look startled her. women are like the sea to the cloudy moods of men, in that they catch every sun-ray and shadow. an indefinite something in the man's manner made her restless and apprehensive. she went near to him with questioning eyes and laid her hand upon his arm.

"you have had bad news?"

"nothing."

"something has troubled you?"

"perhaps."

she looked at him pensively, a suspicion of reproach, pity, and understanding in her eyes.

"is it remorse, your conscience?"

"my conscience? have i had one!"

"you have a strong conscience."

"deo gratias. then you have unearthed it, madame."

a vein of infinite bitterness and melancholy seemed to glimmer in his mood. it was a moment of self-speculation. the girl still looked up into his face.

"why did you kill that woman?"

"why?"

"her dead face haunts me, i see it everywhere; there is some strange shadow over my soul. o that i could get her last cry from my ears!"

fulviac, with a sudden burst of cynicism, broke into grim laughter, a sound like the rattling of dry bones in a closet. the girl shrank away with her lips twitching.

"why cannot you trust me with the truth?"

"truth is not always beneficent. it was a matter of policy, of diplomacy."

"why?"

"discords are bad at the eleventh hour. that woman could have half-wrecked our cause. it was policy to silence her and the man. i made sure of it by killing them."

yeoland's face had a shadow of repugnance upon it; her eyes darkened. the man seemed in a callous, scoffing humour; it was mere glittering steel over the bitterness within.

"you will tell me her name?"

"what is it to you?"

"she haunts me."

"forget her."

"i cannot."

"have the truth if you will. she was the wife of the lord flavian of gambrevault."

the girl stood motionless for a moment; then swayed away several steps from fulviac under the trees. one hand was at her throat; her voice came in a whisper.

"what did she tell you?"

"many things."

"quick, do they touch me?"

fulviac choked an oath, and played with his sword.

"then there was some truth in her?" he said.

the girl grew imperious.

"i command you to tell me all."

"madame, the woman declared you were a traitress, and that this lordling, this flavian of gambrevault, loved you."

"and you killed her----"

"for your sake and the cause. she might have cast our saint out of heaven."

yeoland went back from him and leant against a tree, with her hands over her eyes. sunlight splashed down upon her dress; she shivered as in a cold wind, and could not speak. fulviac's voice, level and passionless, questioned her as she stood and hid her face.

"you let the lord flavian escape?"

"i did."

"have you seen him since?"

"i have."

"thanks for the truth."

her responses had come like chords smitten from the strings of a lute. she started away from the tree and began to walk up and down, wringing her hands. her face was like the face of one in torture, and she seemed to struggle for breath.

"fulviac, i could not kill the man."

the words came like a wail.

"he was young, and he besought me when your men were breaking down the gate. what could i do, what could i do? he was young, and i let him go by the postern and told you a lie. god help me, i told you a lie."

the man watched her with arms folded. there was a look of deep melancholy upon his face, as of one wounded by the truth. his voice was sad but resolute.

"and the rest?"

she rallied suddenly and came to him with truth in her eyes; they were wonderfully piteous and appealing.

"god knows i have been loyal to you. the man tempted me, but i withstood him; i kept my loyalty."

"and you told him----?"

"nothing, nothing; he is as innocent as a child."

fulviac looked down at her with a great light in his eyes. he spoke slowly and with a deeper intonation in his voice.

"i have dealt with many bad women," he said, "but i believe you are speaking the truth."

"it is the truth."

"i take it as such; you have been too much a woman."

"ah, if you could only forgive."

he stepped forward suddenly, took her hands, and looked down at her with a vast tenderness.

"little woman, if i told you i loved you, would you still swear that you have spoken the truth?"

"god judge me, fulviac, i have been loyal."

a strange light played upon his face.

"and i, ye heavens, have i learnt my lesson in these later days? girl, you are above me as the stars; i may but kiss your hands, no more. you are not for worldly ways, or for me. battered, war-worn veteran, i have come again by the heart of a boy. fear me not, little woman, there is no anger in a great love, only deep grieving and unalterable honour."