"No, you do not understand. . . . Your gun, please . . . nay, you can lay it on the turf between us. The phial, too, that you offered your brother. . . . Thank you. And now, my wife, let us talk of your country and mine; two islands which appear to differ more than I had guessed. In Corsica it would seem that, let a vile thing be spoken against a woman, it suffices. Belief in it does not count: it suffices that a shadow has touched her, and rather than share that shadow, men will kill themselves--so tender a plant is their honour. Now, in England, O Princess, men are perhaps even more irrational. They, no more than your Corsicans, listen to the evidence and ask themselves, 'Is this good evidence or bad? Do I believe it or disbelieve?' They begin father back, Princess--Shall I tell you how? They look in the face of their beloved, and they say, 'Slander this, not as you wish for belief, but only as you dare; for here my faith is fixed beforehand.' "And therefore, O Princess," I went on, after a pause in which we eyed one another slowly, "therefore, I disbelieve any slander concerning you; not merely because your brother's confessor was its author--though that, to any rational man, should be enough--but because I have looked in your face. Therefore also I, your husband, forbid you to speak what would dishonour us both." "But, cavalier--if--if it were true?" "True?"--I let out a harsh laugh. "Take up that phial. Hold it in your hand, so. Now look me in the face and drink--if you dare! Look me in the face, read how I trust you, and so, if you can say the lie to me say it--and drink!" She lifted the phial steadily, almost to her lips, keeping her eyes on mine--but of a sudden faltered and let it fall upon the turf: where I, whose heart had all but stood still, crushed my heel upon it savagely. "I cannot. You have conquered," she gasped. "Conquered?" I swore a bitter oath. "O Princess, think you _this_ is the way I promised to conquer you? Take up your gun again and follow me. . . . Eh? You do not ask where I lead?" "It is enough that I follow you, my husband," she said humbly. "It is something, indeed; but before God it is not enough, nor half enough. I see now that 'enough' may never come: almost I doubt if I, who swore to you it should come, and since have desired it madly, desire it any longer; and until it comes you are still the winner. 'Enough' shall be said, Princess--for my price rises--not when (as I promised) you come to me without choosing to be loved or hated, only beseeching your master, but when you shall come to me having made your choice. . . . But so far, so good," said I, cheerfully, changing my tone. "You do not ask where I lead. I am leading you, if I can to Cape Corso, to my father; and by his help, if it shall serve, to your mother." "I thank you, cavalier," she said, still in her restrained voice. "You are a good man; and for that reason I am sorry you will not hearken to me."