“I would rather have been Anne than Jane,” said Queen Guinivere, to whom he was speaking. “If Jane Seymour had any conscience it must have been sorely wounded by Anne’s death--she should never have been really happy afterward.” Many a happy passage at arms took place between the fair rivals. It was certainly most suggestive. The dead queens had not struggled more for the sole possession of bluff Harry’s heart than these two did most unconsciously for Sir Ronald’s love. It was growing near the close of the evening when Sir Ronald danced with Lady Hermione. The brilliant ballroom was very warm then, and she laughed as she said: “I should not like to be a queen always; the weight of my royal robes is great.” “You are always a queen, though not dressed _en reine_,” he replied. “You look tired; let us go into the grounds--the cool, sweet air will refresh you.” Over her queenly costume and crowned head he drew a black lace mantilla, in which she looked inexpressibly beautiful, and they went through the corridor to the moonlit grounds, where many of Lord Lorriston’s guests were enjoying the beauty of the night. Great, fragrant roses sighed out their sweetness, and the lilies gleamed palely. The song of a nightingale in the distant woods was heard plainly, when there came a soft, languid lull in the music. The stars came out like golden lamps in the darkling sky; and they stood, those who loved each other so well, with the first faint pulse of love thrilling each heart, too happy for words; for words, after all, do not tell the heart’s sweetest and deepest thoughts. Only once--when there was a faint stir in the wind, and the roses all bowed their crimson heads, the white bells of the lilies trembled; then he drew the lace mantle more closely round her--he bent down and looked into her beautiful face. “My queen,” he whispered, “see, even the flowers know their queen.” And, as she smiled at the words, she looked so lovely and so loving, that he forgot everything except the passionate longing to call her his own. He bent down and kissed the pure, sweet lips that had never been kissed before. CHAPTER XIII. LED ON BY FATE. Lady Hermione did not utter one word. She was not angry; he knew that, for the beautiful face flushed warm as he touched it. “He has a right to kiss me,” she thought to herself, “for he loves me. No one has ever kissed me before, and never shall.” Then he would have told her the story of his love, the story that rose from his heart to his lips in a burning torrent of words; but at that moment, over the roses came the sound of light laughter, and there was no more solitude; he was obliged to leave the story untold. It was Captain Gordon and Miss Monteith, seeking the cool air of the grounds. Simple accident led them to that path among the roses, but the accident, simple as it was, altered the course of three lives.