But I had understood every word. I knew that Monsieur Maurice's life had been in danger. I knew the King was all-powerful. Terrified at my own boldness—terrified at the thought of my father's anger—trembling—sobbing—scarcely conscious of what I was saying, I fell at the King's feet, and cried:—
“Save him—save him, Sire! Don't let them kill poor Monsieur Maurice! Forgive him—please forgive him, and let him go home again!”
My father seized me by the hand, forced me to rise, and dragged me back more roughly than he had ever touched me in his life.
“I beseech your Majesty's pardon for the child,” he said. “She knows no better.”
But the King smiled, and called me back to him.
“Nay, nay,” he said, laying his hand upon my head, “do not be vexed with her. So, little one, you and Monsieur Maurice are friends?”
I nodded; for I was still crying, and too frightened at what I had done to be able to speak.
“And you love him dearly?”
“Better than anyone—in the world—except Papa,” I faltered, through my tears.
“Not better than your brothers and sisters?”