rosy god at this moment, my treasure. You are all colour of dawn, auroral, colour of tender fires. Tell me your thought, my holy one."
She whispered it back. "It was—that you will be full of business at Nona, Amilcare. You will have no time to love your poor Molly."
The rogue was fishing for protestations, and got them.
"Love you!" he cried. "Ah, tell me how long I have to live, and I will tell you the hours of my love, O my soul!"
"But you will be abroad, a-horseback, with your captains, in the tents—"
"Why, yes, that must be so," he owned. "But I shall love you the more for that, Molletta."
She pretended to pout, fidgeted in his arm, arched her neck.
"But how shall I know it, Amilcare, if I am not there?"
"By what I do to you when I return, dearest love," cried he; and thereafter, speaking by signs, was better understood.
