She thanked him. Then came a pause.
"I must go, Vincent," said she. "You have been my friend this night. I
will tell my lord when I see him. He will reward you better than I."
"He can never reward me!" cried Vincent.
She sighed and turned to go, but he started forward and held her with
both hands at her waist. She seemed so like a boy of his age, it gave
him courage.
"Isoult," he stammered, "Isoult!"
"Yes, Vincent," says she.
"Are you going indeed?"
"I must go at once."
"Shall I see you again?"
"Ah, I cannot tell you that."
"Do you care nothing?"
"I think you have been my friend. Yes, I should like to see you again,
some day."
"Oh, Isoult--"
"What?"
"Will you give me something?"
"What have I, Vincent? If I could you know that I would."
He had her yet by the waist. There was no blinking what he wanted.
Isoult stood.
"You may kiss me there," she said with the benignity of a princess,
and gave him her hand.
The boy's mouth was very near her cheek. Something--who knows what?--
checked him. He let go her waist, dropped on his knees and kissed the
hand, turned little prince in his turn. Isoult was as near loving him
then as she could ever be. This was no great way, perhaps, but near
enough for immediate purposes. When Vincent got up she gave him her
hand frankly to hold. They were two children now, and like two
children kissed each other without under-thought. Then, as she sped
away from the moon, Vincent crept back to his cold bed with an armful
of black hair.