Yet Gilbert remembered that if he did
that, he might be slain, leaving Eleanor to the mercy of ruffians who
would not believe that she was the Queen. So he resigned himself and
went steadily on along the wall, forcing his opponents out of his way,
striking them, stunning them, knocking them down mercilessly, but
killing none.
The time had been short from the beginning of the trouble till Gilbert
reached the turning for which he was making. And all the while the
high, brazen voice was chanting the words of the Canticle, above the
roaring confusion. When Eleanor, safe at last, slipped into the shadows
beyond the corner, the voice was singing, "He hath visited and redeemed
his people," and far up the street the red-cross banner was waving
furiously in the glare of the torchlight.
As Gilbert sheathed his sword, Eleanor laid her hand on his.
"You please me," she said; and though there was no light, he knew by
her tone that she was smiling. "Thank you," she added softly. "Ask what
you will, it is yours."
In the dark he bent down and kissed the hand that held him.
"Madam," he said, "I thank Heaven that I have been allowed to serve a
woman in need."
"And you ask nothing of me?" There was an odd little chill in her voice
as she spoke.
Gilbert did not answer at once, for he was uncertain whether to press
her with a question about Beatrix, or to ask nothing.
"If I asked anything," he said at last, "I should ask that I might
understand your Grace, and why you bade me come in haste to one who is
not even with you.
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