It was very dark now, for a bank of clouds hid the glory of the evening sky, and he could see only the mere outline of the woman whom he so passionately loved, the small head with the fluttering curls fanned by the wind, the graceful shoulders and arms folded primly across her bosom.

He put out his hand and found hers.  Oh! the delight of raising it to his lips.

“By the heaven above us, Sue, by all my hopes of salvation I swear to you that my love is pure and selfless,” he murmured tenderly, all the while that her fragrant little hand was pressed against his lips.  “But for your fortune, I had come to you long ago and said to you ’Let me work for you!—­My love will help me to carve a fortune for you, which it shall be my pride to place at your feet.’—­Every nameless child, so ’tis said, may be a king’s son ... and I, who have no name that I can of verity call mine own—­no father—­no kith or kindred—­I would conquer a kingdom, Sue, if you but loved me too.”

His voice broke in a sob.  Ashamed of his outburst he tried to hide his confusion from her, by sinking on one knee on that soft carpet of moss.  From the little village of Acol beyond the wood, came the sound of the church bell striking the hour of nine.  Sue was silent and absorbed, intensely sorrowful to see the grief of her friend.  He was quite lost in the shadows at her feet now, but she could hear the stern efforts which he made to resume control over himself and his voice.

“Richard ... good Richard,” she said soothingly, “believe me, I am very, very sorry for this....  I ...  I vow I did not know....  I had no thought—­how could I have? that you cared for me like ... like this....  You believe me, good master, do you not?” she entreated.  “Say that you believe me, when I say that I would not willingly have caused you such grief.”

“I believe that you are the most sweet and pure woman in all the world,” he murmured fervently, “and that you are as far beyond my reach as are the stars.”

“Nay, nay, good master, you must not talk like that....  Truly, truly I am only a weak and foolish girl, and quite unworthy of your deep devotion ... and you must try ... indeed, indeed you must ... to forget what happened under these trees to-night.”

“Of that I pray you have no fear,” he replied more calmly, as he rose and once more stood before her—­a dark figure in the midst of the dark wood—­immovable, almost impassive, with head bent and arms folded across his chest.  “Nathless ’tis foolish for a nameless peasant even to talk of his honor, yet ’tis mine honor, Lady Sue, which will ever help me to remember that a mountain of gold and vast estates stand between me and the realization of my dream.”

“No, no,” she rejoined earnestly, “it is not that only.  You are my friend, good Richard, and I do not wish to see you eating out your heart in vain and foolish regrets.  What you ... what you wish could never—­never be.  Good master, if you were rich to-morrow and I penniless, I could never be your wife.”