“I, too!” she whispered, “I shall go to England with thee!”

And at her words, within the little cavern there came a silence to be felt.  In undisguised dismay the Englishman gazed at her where she knelt.  Then: 

“By the holyrood!” he muttered aghast, “She must have thought, — God only knows what she must have thought!”

He glanced hurriedly toward the doorway and back again, ashamed.  Then even such impatience as was his gave way, for the moment at least, to something more chivalric.  He stooped and patted awkwardly the smooth black head.

“Come, Wildenai, little wild rose, look up and speak to me.  I must be going!”

But still the maid lay prostrate, clasping close his rough buskins in her little brown hands.  Never in all his life had Lord Harold been so sorely uncomfortable.  How was it possible she had ever imagined that he could take her with him, — that he had meant so much?  Resentment grew within him at the thought, yet strangely mingled always with something far more tender.  Hastily he considered, his heart torn between the desire not to wound her and dread of what he knew she wanted.  To be sure the maid was beautiful, with the softened beauty of a moonlit night in summer, her eyes beneath her dusky hair like stars between the branches of dark trees, her voice that of the forest stream when it sings itself to sleep.  Yet past all doubt he knew that not one among the gorgeous throng that crowded about Elizabeth would ever see that beauty, no English ear take heed to hear the music of her voice.  Nay, he could even, as he thought of it, picture the amazement of the great queen, could hear her scornful laughter, should he present, to help adorn her court, a savage Indian girl!  No, a thousand times no!  Such disgrace he could not suffer.  Nor was the maid herself, so he defended himself, fitted for such a life.  Soon would she be as unhappy in England as he would be to have her there.  Besides, she was but a child.  Else had she never so far forgot all womanly dignity as to force herself upon him, and being but a child she would soon forget.  Gently he made to raise her to her feet.

“Wildenai, little wild rose,” he began again, “what thou hast asked of me thou dost well know thyself is an unheard of thing.  Much as I owe to thee, and well know I that ’tis so much I never can repay it; still for thine own sweet sake ’tis not in this way thy reward must come.  The long journey and the strange new life would kill thee, Wildenai.”  Having once begun he stumbled on, but half aware of how each word he uttered hurt her, eager only to have done with the whole sorry scene.  “Thou art but a little wild flower.  Thou couldst not live away from this, thy sunny island.  Can’st thou not understand, my Wildenai?”

He paused, waiting for a reply; but the maiden answered nothing.  Silent she lay as though in very truth she were a wild flower tossed to earth and trampled upon by some uncaring foot.