He had stretched himself on a great couch, covered with white bear-skins. He was in shadow; she was in the light that came from the fire on the wide hearth, and from the oriel window near, a red warm dusky light, that fell on the jewels on her hands, the furs on her skirts, the very pearls about her throat.
She glanced at him anxiously, seeing how motionless he lay there, with his head turned backward on the cushions.
'I am afraid you are weak still from that wound,' she said, as she rose and approached him. 'Greswold assures me it has left no trace, but I am always afraid. And you look often so pale. Perhaps you exert yourself too much? Let the wolves be. Perhaps it is too cold for you? Would you like to go to the south? Do not think of me; my only happiness is to do whatever you wish.'
He kissed her hand with deep unfeigned emotion. 'I believe in angels since I knew you,' he murmured. 'No; I will not take you away from the winter and the people that you love. I am well enough. Greswold is right. I could not master those horses if I were not strong; be sure of that.'
'But I always fear that it is dull here for you?'
'Dull! with you? "Custom cannot stale her infinite variety." That was written in prophecy of your charm for me.'
'You will always flatter me! And I am not "various" at all; I am too grave to be entertaining. I am just the German house-mother who cares for the children and for you.'
'Is that your portrait of yourself? I think Carolus Duran's is truer, my grand châtelaine. When you are at Court the whole circle seems to fade to nothing before your presence. Though there are so many women high-born and beautiful there, you eclipse them all.'
'Only in your eyes! And you know I care nothing for courts. What I like is the life here, where one quiet day is the pattern of all the other days. If I were sure that you were content in it----'
'My love, tell me honestly, do you never miss the world?'
He rose and walked to the hearth. He, whose life was a long lie, never lied to her if he could avoid it; and he knew very well that he did miss the world with all its folly, stimulant, and sin. Sometimes the moral air here seemed to him too pure, too clear.
'Did I do so I should be thankless indeed--thankless as madmen are who do not know the good done to them. I am like a ship that has anchored in a fair haven after press of weather. I infinitely prefer to see none but yourself: when others are here we are of necessity so much apart. If the weather,' he added more lightly, 'did not so very often wear Milton's grey sandals, there would be nothing one could ever wish changed in the life here. For such great riders as we are, that is a matter of regret. Wet saddles are too often our fate, but in compensation our forests are so green.'