She folded that offered hand, white, supple, and soft with youth and delicate nature, in both her own, and whether Zamorna’s pulse beat rapidly or not his handmaid’s did as she felt the slender grasping fingers of the monarch laid quietly in hers. He did not wait for the report, but took his hand away again, and laying it on her raven curls said: ‘So, Mina, you won’t leave me though I never did you any good in the world? Warner says you are resolved to continue in the scene of war.’ ‘To continue by your side, my lord.’ ‘But what shall I do with you, Mina? Where shall I put you? My little girl, what will the army say when they hear of your presence? You have read history? Recollect that it was Darius who carried his concubines to the field, not Alexander! The world will say: “Zamorna attends to his own pleasures and cares not how his men suffer.”’ Mina writhed at these words as if the iron had entered into her soul. A vivid burning flush crimsoned her cheek, and tears of shame and bitter self-reproach gushed at once into her bright black eyes. Zamorna was touched acutely. ‘Nay, my little girl,’ said he, redoubling his caresses and speaking in his most soothing tone, ‘never weep about it. It grieves me to hurt your feelings, but you desire an impossibility, and I must use strong language to convince you that I cannot grant it.’ ‘Oh, don’t refuse me again,’ sobbed Miss Laury. ‘I’ll bear all infamy and contempt to be allowed to follow you, my lord. My lord, I’ve served you for many years most faithfully, and I seldom ask a favour of you. Don’t reject the first request of the kind I have ever made.’ The duke shook his head, and the meeting of his lips, too placid for the firm compression, told that he was not to be moved. ‘If you should receive a wound, if you should fall sick,’ continued Mina, ‘what can surgeons and physicians do for you? They cannot watch you and wait on you and worship you like me, and you do not seem well now. The bloom is so faded on your complexion, and the flesh is wasted round your eyes. Do not look so calmly resolved: let me go!’ Zamorna withdrew his arm from her waist. ‘I must be displeased before you cease to importune me,’ said he. ‘Mina, look at that letter. Read the direction,’ pointing to one he had been writing. She obeyed. It was addressed to, ‘Her Royal Highness, Mary Henrietta, Duchess of Zamorna.’ ‘Must I pay no attention to the feelings of that lady?’ pursued the duke, whom the duties of war and the conflict of some internal emotions seemed to render peculiarly stern. ‘Her public claims must be respected whether I love her or not.’