“We are Pagans,” she said, “poor Pagans who oftenest seem to pray to a cruel thing we do not know but only crouch before in terror, lest it crush us.  But when we look up into such a Heaven as this, its majesty and stillness seem a presence, and we dare to utter what our hearts cry out, and know we shall be heard.”  She caught his hand and held it to her heart, which he felt leap beneath it.  “There is no power would harm a woman’s child,” she cried—­“a little unborn thing which has not breathed—­because it would wreak vengeance on herself!  There is none, Gerald, is there?” And she clung to him, her uplifted face filled with such lovely, passionate, woman’s fear and pleading as made him sweep her to his breast and hold her silently—­because he could not speak.

“For I have learned to be afraid,” she murmured brokenly, against his breast.  “And I was kneeling here to pray—­to pray with all my soul—­that if there were so cruel a thing ’twould kill me now—­blight me—­take me from you—­that I might die in torture—­but not bring suffering on my love, and on an innocent thing.”

And her heart beat like some terrified caged eaglet against his own, and her eyes were wild with woe.  But the wondrous stillness of the deep night enfolded them, as if Nature held them in her great arms which comfort so.  And her stars gazed calmly down, even as though their calmness were answering speech.

CHAPTER XXX

On Tyburn Hill

There was none knew her as her husband did—­none in the world—­though so many were her friends and worshippers.  As he loved her he knew her, the passion of his noble heart giving him clearer and more watchful eyes than any other.  Truth was, indeed, that she herself did not know how much he saw and pondered on and how tender his watch upon her was.

The dark shadow in her eyes he had first noted, the look which would pass over her face sometimes at a moment when ’twas brightest, when it glowed with tenderest love for himself or with deepest yearning over the children who were given to them as time passed, for there were born to fill their home four sons who were like young gods for strength and beauty, and two daughters as fair things as Nature ever made to promise perfect womanhood.

And how she loved and tended them, and how they joyed in their young lives and worshipped and revered her!

“When I was a child, Gerald,” she said to their father, “I was unhappy—­and ’tis a hideous thing that a child should be so.  I loved none and none loved me, and though all feared my rage and gave me my will, I was restless and savage and a rebel, though I knew not why.  There were hours—­I did not know their meaning, and hated them—­when I was seized with fits of horrid loneliness and would hide myself in the woods, and roll in the dead leaves, and curse myself and all things because I was wretched.  I used to think that I was angered at my dogs, or my horse, or some servant, or my father, and would pour forth oaths at them—­but ’twas not they.  Our children must be happy—­they must be happy, Gerald.  I will have them happy!”