Her tone was harsh. She had not known how frankly and without stint she loved this man. She was looking ahead, seeing the forlornness of the waiting-time while he was absent on a desperate venture. He came and patted her cheek, as if she were a baby to be soothed. “I choose both,” he said. “Honour and you--dear heart, I cannot disentangle them.” She felt dwarfed by the breadth and simplicity of his appeal. The world thought her devout, a leal daughter of the Church; but she had not caught his gift of seeing each day whole, complete, without fear or favour from the morrow. And, because she was a spoilt child, she could not check her words. “You’ve not seen the Prince. He’s a name only, while I--I am your wife.” Sir Jasper was tired with the long day’s hunting, the news that had met him by the way; but his voice was quiet and resolute. “He is more than a name, child. He’s my Prince--and one day, if I live to see it, his father will be crowned in London. And you’ll be there, and I shall tell them that it was you, Agnes, who helped me fasten on my sword-belt.” And still she would not heed. Her temperament was of the kind that afterwards was to render the whole Rising barren. She had no patience and little trust. “Why should I give you God-speed to Tower Hill?” she snapped. “You think the name of Stuart is one to conjure with. You think all Lancashire will rise, when this wizard Prince brings the Stuart Rose to them. Trust me--I know how Lancashire will wait, and wait; they are cautious first and loyal afterwards.” “Lancashire will rise,” broke in Sir Jasper; “but, either way, I go--and all my tenantry.” “And your heir? He will go, too, will he not?” She did not know how deep her blow struck. He had resisted her, her passionate need of him. He would leave her for a Rising that had no hope of success, because the name of Stuart was magical to him. In her pain and loneliness she struck blindly. He went to the door, threw it open, and stood looking at the grey, tranquil hills. There was the sharp answer ready on his tongue. He checked it. This was no time to yield to anger; for the Prince’s men, if they were to win home to London, had need of courage and restraint. “My son”--he turned at last, and his voice was low and tired--“_our_ son, Agnes--he is not trained for warfare. I tell you, he’ll eat his heart out, waiting here and knowing he cannot strike a blow. His heart is big enough, if only the body of him would give it room.” She was desperate. All the years of selfishness, with Sir Jasper following every whim for love of her, were prompting her to keep him at her apron-strings. Her own persuasion had failed; she would try another way, though it hurt her pride. “He’ll eat his heart out, as you say. Then stay for the boy’s sake,” she put in hurriedly. “He will feel the shame of being left behind--he will miss you at every turn--it is cruel to leave him fatherless.”