Black Bartlemys Treasure

"Martin!" says she very softly, as she began braiding a thick tress of hair. "Have you ever truly loved any woman?"

"No," says I, "No!"

"Could you so love, I wonder?"

"No!" says I again and clenching my hands. "No--never!"

"Why, true," says she, more softly, "methinks in your heart is no room for poor Love, 'tis over-full of Hate, and hate is a disease incurable with you. Is't not so, Martin?"

"Yes--no! Nay, how should I know?" quoth I.

"Yet should love befall you upon a day, 'twould be love unworthy any good woman, Martin!"

"Why then," says I, "God keep me from the folly of love."

"Pray rather that Love, of its infinite wisdom, teach you the folly of hate, Martin!"

"'Tis a truth," says I bitterly, "a truth that hath become part of me! It hath been my companion in solitude, my comfort in my shameful misery, my hope, my very life or I had died else! And now--now you bid me forget it--as 'twere some mere whimsy, some idle fancy--this thought that hath made me strong to endure such shames and tribulations as few have been forced to suffer!"

"Aye, I do, I do!" she cried. "For your own sake, Martin, and for mine."

"No!" quoth I, "A thousand times! This thought hath been life to me, and only with life may I forego it!"

At this, the busy fingers faltered in their pretty labour, and, bowing her head upon her hand, she sat, her face hid from me, until I, not doubting that she wept, grew uneasy and questioned her at last.

"Nay, my lady--since this must be so--wherefore grieve?"

"Grieve?" says she lifting her head, and I saw her eyes all radiant and her red lips up-curving in a smile. "Nay, Martin, I do marvel how eloquent you grow upon your wrongs, indeed 'tis as though you feared you might forget them. Thus do you spur up slothful memory, which giveth me sure hope that one day 'twill sleep to wake no more."

And now, or ever I might find answer, she rose and giving me "Good-night" was gone, singing, to her bed; and I full of bewilderment. But suddenly as I sat thus, staring into the dying fire, she was back again.

"What now?" I questioned.

"Our goat, Martin! I may not sleep until I know her safe--come let us go look!" and speaking, she reached me her hand. So I arose, and thus with her soft, warm fingers in mine we went amid the shadows where I had tethered the goat to a tree hard beside the murmurous rill and found the animal lying secure and placidly enough, the kid beside her. The which sight seemed to please my lady mightily.