Who was he, she wondered. His face was so shrouded in his mask that she could not guess his identity, and his voice sounded unfamiliar. Yet, as she leaned upon his arm a sweet sense of restfulness and peace crept over her such as she had never known before, and a quick thought of Guy Winthrop thrilled her, only to be dispelled with a shuddering sigh at the memory of Nurse Katherine’s warning. “You tremble,” murmured her stately companion, in deep musical tones. “What earthly emotion can have power to disturb the serenity of a crowned forehead?” “A woman’s heart is the same, whether born to the russet or the purple,” she answered lowly, and almost, it seemed to her, without volition of her own. “I should like to believe it,” the minstrel answered, simply. The queen asked lightly: “Have any of my fair subjects given you cause to doubt my assertion? If so, you have but to speak--and I punish!” “‘He jests at scars who never felt a wound.’” “You have no proof that your assertion applies to me,” the queen replied tremblingly. “Your pardon, my liege, but: “‘Your heart is a snowdrift where foot never trod, Love’s sun has not wakened a bud on its sod.’” A laugh rippled sweetly over her lips, like the soft music of a little stream dashing over rocks and pebbles. “How do you know that?” she queried. “Because I know you! You are glorious as Mary, Queen of Scots, but not less lovely as Edith, Queen of Hearts!” She gave a violent start, then, tossing her head, tried to rectify the unconscious admittal that he had penetrated her mask. “I think you mistake,” she said lightly. “But you show me your secret ‘as a bird betrays its nest by striving to conceal it.’ So you love some cruel, fair maid whose name is Edith?” “_Edith!_”--he repeated it after her, in almost a passion of pain, “I have never dared call her so--she is as far above me as yonder star.” He paused at an open window and lifted his hand to a glorious planet glittering in mid heaven. “Ah, Mary, ah, my queen! ‘Hadst thou been less than thou art!’” “Guy Winthrop!” broke wildly from her parted lips. “Your majesty!” he straightened his fine form, and made a deprecatory movement with his white hand. “It seems that we have mutually mistaken each other for a different person. But suppose--remember, I only say suppose--that you were really the Edith whom I love, and I the Guy you named--what do you think they would say to each other? For instance now, what would Guy say to Edith? What do you think he would say, I mean?” A sudden daring spirit, inherent in the grand old Chilton blood, leaped to her lips, and before she could think twice, she had uttered these words: “He would say, ‘Edith, my darling, I love you!’” The arm she leaned on trembled with the fierce throb of his heart. “And what would Edith say?” he asked her, in low, unsteady tones. “What would you like her to say?”--coquettishly.