I had never learned to do such things, and even now I cannot tell what it was that came over me. For without a moment’s hesitation I kneeled on one knee, and taking her hand, I kissed it with infinite love and respect. She turned quickly from me, dashing the tears from her face with her hand. “Quintin!” she cried--I think before she thought. “Mary!” I said, for the first time in my life saying the word to my lady’s face. She held her hand with the palm pressed against my breast, pushing me from her that she might examine my face. “Why are you here?” she asked anxiously, “you have heard what they say of my father?” “I have heard, and I come to know?” I said quietly. She clasped her hands in front of her breast and then let them fall loosely down in a sort of slack despair. “I will tell you,” she said, “it is partly true. But the worst is not true!” She was silent for a while, as if she were mastering herself to speak. Then she burst out suddenly, “But what right have you or any other to demand such things of me? Is not my father Sir Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun, and who has name or fame like him in all Scotland? They that accuse him are but jealous of him--even you would be glad like the others to see him humiliated--brought low!” “You do me wrong,” said I, yet more quietly; “you know it. Mary, I came because I have no friends on earth like you and Alexander Gordon. And the thing troubled me.” “I know--I know,” she said, distractedly. “I think it hath well-nigh driven me mad, as it hath my poor father.” She put her hand to her forehead and pressed it, as if it had been full of a great throbbing pain. I wished I could have held it for her. Then we moved side by side a little along the path, both being silent. My thoughts were with hers. I saw her pain; I felt her pride, her reluctance to speak. Presently we came to a retired place where there was an alcove cut out of the cliff, re-entrant, filled with all coolness and the stir of leaves. Hither, as if moved by one instinct, we repaired. Mary sat her down upon the stone seat. I stood before her. There was a long waiting without a word spoken, so that a magpie came and flicked his tail on a branch near by without seeing us. Then cocking his eye downward, he fled with loud screams of anger and protestation. “I will tell you all!” she said, suddenly. But all the same it seemed as if she could not find it in her heart to begin. “You know my father--root and branch you know him,” she said, at last; “or else I could not tell you. He is a man. He has so great a repute, so full a record of bravery, that none dares to point the finger. Through all Scotland and the Low Countries it is sufficient for my father to say ‘I am Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun!’