"Duchess of Brittany!
Countess of Rougemont! Lady of Nantes and of Guerrand! of Rais and of
Toufon and Guerche!"
She answered, "No, my dearest,--I am that Jehane, whose only title is
the Constant Lover." And in the green twilight, lit as yet by one
low-hanging star alone, their lips and desperate young bodies clung,
now, it might be, for the last time.
Presently the girl spoke. Her soft mouth was lax and tremulous, and
her gray eyes were more brilliant than the star yonder. The boy's arms
were about her, so that neither could be quite unhappy, yet.
"Friend," said Jehane, "I have no choice. I must wed with this de
Montfort. I think I shall die presently. I have prayed God that I may
die before they bring me to the dotard's bed."
Young Riczi held her now in an embrace more brutal. "Mine! mine!" he
snarled toward the obscuring heavens.
"Yet it may be I must live. Friend, the man is very old. Is it wicked
to think of that? For I cannot but think of his great age."
Then Riczi answered: "My desires--may God forgive me!--have clutched
like starving persons at that sorry sustenance.
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