The Story
of Saville
VII.
But the next day came, and with it Saville too breathless and happy to speak,
And lie felt the vibrant blood in her hand, and he guessed it was red in her cheek,
And he said that he dared not reproach her—it was not his right—and then poured
Upon her head meek and devoted such vials of wrath as are stored
In a thunderbolt, wild over leaping the bounds that convention hath set,
And Saville stood exultant and smiling to see how a man could forget
All hindrances puny, external, and show forth the soul of him yet.
But she stifled her smiling and gently spoke, and there was a subtle change
In her tone and manner, a humbleness, subservient, flattering, strange,
As when a poor peasant, gambolling rude, freely will shout and sing
For a chance companion, but soon is hushed, learning he rides with The King!
“I am sorry—yet glad—but sorry the most! I never, I think, should have dared
