"I'll admit that. "You tried to do something that was fine, and … and civilization would not let you. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. The touch of her hands was pleasurable. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. Thinking of Mantua, she wandered to the courtyard.
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