Don John smoothed her golden hair.

Never since he had known that he loved her, had she seemed so beautiful as then, and his thought tried to hold her as she was, that she might in memory be always the same.

There was colour in her cheeks, a soft flush of happiness that destroyed all traces of her tears, so that they only left her grey eyes dark and tender under the long wet lashes.
"It was a cruel dream, dear love! It was not true!" Finding him again, her voice was low, and sweet with joy.
He smiled, too, and his own eyes were quiet and young, now that the tempest had passed away, almost out of recollection.

It had raged but for a few moments, but in that time both he and she had lived and loved as it were through years, and their love had grown better and braver.
She knew that his word was enough, and that he would die rather than break it; but though she had called herself weak, and had seemed to break down in despair, she would have left him for ever rather than believe that he was still in danger through her.

She did not again ask herself whether her sudden resolution had been all for his sake, and had not formed itself because she dreaded to think of being bound to one who betrayed his country.