He was silent for
some time.
'I know,' he said. 'While ever either of us insists to the other, we
are all wrong. But there we are, the accord doesn't come.'
They sat in stillness under the shadow of the trees by the bank. The
night was white around them, they were in the darkness, barely
conscious.
Gradually, the stillness and peace came over them. She put her hand
tentatively on his. Their hands clasped softly and silently, in peace.
'Do you really love me?' she said.
He laughed.
'I call that your war-cry,' he replied, amused.
'Why!' she cried, amused and really wondering.
'Your insistence--Your war-cry--"A Brangwen, A Brangwen"--an old
battle-cry. Yours is, "Do you love me? Yield knave, or die."'
'No,' she said, pleading, 'not like that. Not like that. But I must
know that you love me, mustn't I?'
'Well then, know it and have done with it.'
'But do you?'
'Yes, I do. I love you, and I know it's final. It is final, so why say
any more about it.'
She was silent for some moments, in delight and doubt.
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