"Indeed? You astonish me, dear lady. But in verity you all in this unhappy country are full of surprises for a plain, blunt-headed Britisher. Now what, I wonder," he added, with a light, good-humoured laugh, "would my forgiveness be worth to you?" "Everything!" she replied earnestly. "I was deceived by that abominable liar, who knew how to play upon a woman's pique. I am ashamed, wretched. . . . Oh, cannot you believe me? And I would give worlds to atone!" He laughed in his quiet, gently ironical way. "You do not happen to possess worlds, dear lady. All that you have is youth and beauty and ambition, and life. You would forfeit all those treasures if you really tried to atone." "But----" "Lady Blakeney is a prisoner. . . . You are her jailer. . . . Her precious life is the hostage for yours." "Milor----" she murmured. "From my heart, I wish you well, fair one," he broke in lightly. "Believe me, the pagan gods that fashioned you did not design you for tragedy. . . . And if you ran counter to your friend Chauvelin's desires, I fear me that pretty neck of yours would suffer. A thing to be avoided at all costs! And now," he added, "have I your permission to go? My position here is somewhat precarious, and for the next four days I cannot afford the luxury of entertaining so fair a lady, by running my head into a noose." He was on the point of going when she placed a restraining hand upon his arm. "Milor!" she pleaded. "At your service, dear lady!" "Is there naught I can do for you?" He looked at her for a moment or two, and even through the gloom she caught his quizzical look and the mocking lines around his firm lips. "You can ask Lady Blakeney to forgive you," he said, with a thought more seriousness than was habitual to him, "She is an angel; she might do it." "And if she does?" "She will know what to do, to convey her thoughts to me." "Nay! but I'll do more than that, milor," Theresia continued excitedly. "I will tell her that I shall pray night and day for your deliverance and hers. I will tell her that I have seen you, and that you are well." "Ah, if you did that----!" he exclaimed, almost involuntarily. "You would forgive me, too?" she pleaded. "I would do more than that, fair one. I would make you Queen of France, in all but name." "What do you mean?" she murmured. "That I would then redeem the promise which I made to you that evening, in the lane--outside Dover. Do you remember?" She made no reply, closed her eyes; and her vivid fancy, rendered doubly keen by the mystery which seemed to encompass him as with a supernal mantle, conjured up the vision of that unforgettable evening: the moonlight, the scent of the hawthorn, the call of the thrush. She saw him stooping before her, and kissing her finger-tips, even whilst her ears recalled every word he had spoken and every inflexion of his mocking voice: