“What—­what do you mean, Peter?” she asked haltingly.

“I mean that I’m going away—­that I mustn’t see you any more.”

A cry fled from her lips—­denying, supplicating, and at the desolate sound of it a tremor ran through his limbs.  It was as though his body fought and struggled against the compelling spirit within it.

“We mustn’t meet again,” he went on steadily.

“Not meet—­ever—­do you mean?” There was something piteous in the young, shaken voice.

“Never, if we can help it.  We must go separate ways, Nan.”

She tried to speak, but her lips moved soundlessly.  Only her eyes, meeting his, held a mute agony that tortured him.  All at once his self-control gave way, and the passion of love and longing against which he had been fighting swept aside the barriers which circumstance had placed about it.  His arms went round her, holding her close while he rained kisses on her throat and lips and eyes—­fierce, desperate kisses that burned against her face.  And Nan kissed him back, yielding up her soul upon her lips, knowing that after this last passionate farewell there could he no more giving or receiving.  Only a forgetting.

. . .  At last they drew apart from one another, though Peter’s arms still held her, but only tenderly as for the last time.

“This is good-bye, dearest of all,” he said presently.

“Yes,” she answered gravely.  “I know.”

“Heart’s beloved, try not to be too sad,” he went on.  “Try to find happiness in other things.  We can never be together—­never be more than friends, but I shall be your lover always—­always, Nan—­through this world into the next.”

Her hand stole into his.

“As I yours, Peter.”

It was as though some solemn pledge had passed between them—­a spiritual troth which nothing in this world could either touch or tarnish.  Neither Peter’s marriage nor the rash promise Nan had given to Roger could impinge on it.  It would carry them through the complex disarray of this world to the edge of the world beyond.

Some time passed before either of them spoke again.  Then Peter said quite simply: 

“We must go home, dear.”

She nodded, and together, hand in hand, they descended from the old castle which must have witnessed so many loves and griefs and partings in King Arthur’s time, keeping them secret in its bosom as it would keep secret this later farewell.

They were very silent on the way back.  Just at the end, before they turned the corner where the car awaited them, Peter spoke to her again, taking both her hands in his for the last time and holding them in a firm, steady clasp.

“Don’t forget, Nan, what we said just now.  We can each remember that—­our troth.  Hang on to it—­hard, when life seems a bit more uphill than usual.”

CHAPTER XVII