It was what he had said sixteen years ago in ’72, and the years had made the need more, not less, imperative. He continued, as if he justified himself to that still figure of his wife, with her hands before her face. "I am forced to this decision. No consideration of justice, of ambition, nay, even of diplomacy or good sense, can move His Majesty to break off with France; his insults to the liberty of England are incredible. He hath done all he can to thwart, cross, and hamper me. And now is the moment when we must try conclusions." The Princess’s white brocade shivered with her trembling. "I know," she murmured—"I know." But she was weeping, and the tears ran down through her fingers. The Prince was at a loss to know why she was so distressed. She had long been involved with him in the growing rupture with her father, to whom no affection or respect bound her, but the mere name of duty, and lately she had been well aware that the actions of the King were driving the Prince into open opposition. He looked at her, rather pale, and frowned. "You think of your father..." he said, ... "your father..." Mary, who knew that tears vexed him, endeavoured to check her sobbing; but she could not control her voice to speak. "I am indeed unfortunate," added the Prince rather grimly, "that to do what I must do I am under the necessity of the scandal of a breach in my own family." She answered faintly, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes— "God forgive me, I did not think of His Majesty." "Of what, then?" There was the slightest pause, and then she answered steadily, still staring out at the dark wood— "Of—ourselves. Of the great change this will make—success or failure." The Prince was silent. "I have been," continued Mary, very low, "so happy here—in the life most suited to me, in this dear country, where every one is so good as to love me a little." The candlelight glimmered in the little braid of pearls in her hair and flowed in lines of light down her thick satin gown, showed, too, her cheek colourless and glistening with tears. The Prince, standing close to her, with his back to the window, watched, but neither spoke nor moved. "It is nigh ten years," she said, "since you went to the war ... and now the peace will be broken again.... And I know not how I can well bear it if you leave me." The Prince was still silent, and studied her dimly seen face (for her back was to the light) with what was almost a passionate attention. "I am a poor creature," she added, with a kind of desperate contempt for herself, "to think of my wretched self at such a juncture; what are my own melancholies compared to what you must undergo? Yet, humanly speaking, I have no courage to face this crisis ... that my father should be guilty of such a horrible crime against Church and State, and you bound by your duty to oppose him by force——"