Richard laughed, though he was sensibly nettled and perhaps a shade abashed.  Presently he sang again.

Sang Richard: 

  “Catullus might have made of words that seek
  With rippling sound, in soft recurrent ways,
  The perfect song, or in remoter days
  Theocritus have hymned you in glad Greek;
  But I am not as they,—­and dare not speak
  Of you unworthily, and dare not praise
  Perfection with imperfect roundelays,
  And desecrate the prize I dare to seek.

  “I do not woo you, then, by fashioning
  Vext analogues ’twixt you and Guenevere,
  Nor do I come with agile lips that bring
  The sugared periods of a sonneteer,
  And bring no more—­but just with, lips that cling
  To yours, in murmuring, ‘I love you, dear!’”

Richard had resolved that Branwen should believe him.  Tinsel, indeed! then here was yet more tinsel which she must receive as gold.  He was very angry, because his vanity was hurt, and the pin-prick spurred him to a counterfeit so specious that consciously he gloried in it.  He was superb, and she believed him now; there was no questioning the fact, he saw it plainly, and with exultant cruelty; then curt as lightning came the knowledge that what Branwen believed was the truth.

Richard had taken just two strides toward this fair girl.  Branwen stayed motionless, her lips a little parted.  The affairs of earth and heaven were motionless throughout the moment, attendant, it seemed to him; and to him his whole life was like a wave that trembled now at full height, and he was aware of a new world all made of beauty and of pity.  Then the lute fell from his spread out hands, and Richard sighed, and shrugged.

“There is a task set me,” he said—­“it is God’s work, I think.  But I do not know—­I only know that you are very beautiful, Branwen,” he said, and in the name he found a new and piercing loveliness.

And he said also:  “Go!  For I have loved many women, and, God help me!  I know that I have but to wheedle you and you, too, will yield!  Yonder is God’s work to be done, and within me rages a commonwealth of devils.  Child! child!” he cried, “I am, and ever was, a coward, too timid to face life without reserve, and always I laughed because I was afraid to concede that anything is serious!”

For a long while Richard lay at his ease in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon.

“I love her.  She thinks me an elderly imbecile with a flat and reedy singing-voice, and she is perfectly right.  She has never even entertained the notion of loving me.  That is well, for to-morrow, or, it may be, the day after, we must part forever.  I would not have the parting make her sorrowful—­or not, at least, too unalterably sorrowful.  It is very well that Branwen does not love me.