I wanted to tell her this, but dared not. And so we stood, spellbound, while the night brought out the blue--and the young moon changed from red to silver--and the stars came down to take their places. Then slowly we passed on and sat by the fort, leaning our backs against it; in meditation looking across the prairie that had become so changed a place to us. The night grew sweet with the purity of untouched wilderness as, shoulder to shoulder, we sat talking in low tones of Smilax and Echochee. She had wondered about them no few times that day, and now I, too, felt some concern. Yet the Everglades lay far eastward and, for any reason giving up Big Cove, I knew he would plunge as deeply into it as his pursuers dared follow. To-morrow would be time enough to worry, I assured her, so we talked about Monsieur, the Azurian throne, and--I could not help it--of another Chancellor who would build her kitchen fires. But I tried to keep all bitterness from my words. In the vague light I could see that her face was serious, and very tender. Then for a time we sat without speaking. Perhaps it was the place, the charm; perhaps a magic was working stronger than I knew; but words came to my lips that I stubbornly refused to speak. I fought against them; they, too, fought with grim insistence; so as a compromise, looking straight ahead and pretending to jest even while I accused, I said: "You've been listening!" "Listening?" Her eyes opened prettily, alert as they always were to parry banter with banter. "Yes, listening--at the keyhole like a common gossip. A nice pastime for a Princess, surely!" "At the--keyhole?" She was proceeding warily now; her mind, as in a game of hide-and-seek, was on tiptoe, in expectation of discovering me at every step. "Yes," I repeated. "And you heard my heart admitting that it's happy--to've found something it was hungry for." For the briefest instant I thought a tremor ran through her shoulder, as if a little chilly sensation had rippled her nerves. But it was a silly idea, because she lightly replied: "Corn cakes, maybe. It ought to feel quite stuffed after the seven you had for dinner." "Six," I corrected. "Seven," she insisted. "But I know!" "So do I," she laughed, "that you stole one from my plate when you thought I wasn't looking." "I needed that one." "I never doubted it," she agreed. Wild words again sprang to my lips, but this time I ruthlessly strangled them. Yet I wanted to say: "I took from you because you stole from me!" And I wanted to ask--O, shades of suffering Dante, how I longed to ask!--if her dear heart were hungering, too, that she should have needed my own to feed it!--if that were her excuse for thievery!