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Updated: May 9, 2025
"Yes," was Osmonde's answer "yes, love, as if at God, who has smiled at herself faithful, tender woman heart!" The hand which he held in his clasp clung closer. The other crept to his shoulder and lay there tremblingly. "How faithful and how tender, my Gerald," Clorinda said, "I only know. She is my saint sweet Anne, whom I dared treat so lightly in my poor wayward days.
She did not lay Osmonde's letter aside, but kept it in her hand, and seeing that she waited for their retirement to read it, her guests began to make their farewells.
Thereupon, as he lay prostrate, for he was too undone a man to rise, he saw in his Grace of Osmonde's eyes the two points of light which were like ruthless flames and yet burned so still. And his Grace, standing near him, leaned upon his sword, looking down. "Do you understand?" he said. "That you are the better sword Yes!" shrieked Sir John, and added curses it were useless to repeat.
He had loved and been beloved, and now he was gone, leaving behind him no memory which was not tender and full of affectionate reverence. "Never," was Osmonde's thought, "in all the years we knew each other did I hear him utter a thought which was ungenerous or unjust. You, my lord," he found himself saying aloud one day, "have sure left earth's regrets behind and see with clearer eyes than ours.
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