"That," answered my father, stiffly, "I decline to tell you. It has come to your hands, Princess, through violation of your flag of truce, and in honour you should restore it to me without question."
She waved a hand impatiently. "This is the crown of King Theodore, O Englishman. See the rim of mingled oak and laurel, made in imitation of that hasty chaplet wherewith the Corsicans first crowned him in the Convent of Alesani. Answer me, and in French, for all your lives depend on it; yet briefly, for the sound of that tongue angers my men. For your life, then, how did you come by this?"
"You must find some better argument, Princess," said my father, stiffly.
"For your son's life then."
I saw my father lift his eyes and scan her beautiful face.
"My son is not a coward, Princess; the less so that—" Here my father hesitated.
"Quickly, quickly!" she urged him.
He threw up his head. "Yes, quickly, Princess; and in no fear, nor upon any condition. You are islanders; therefore you are patriots. You are patriots; therefore you hate the Genoese and love the Queen Emilia, whose servant I am. As I was saying, then, my son has the less excuse to be a coward in that he hopes, one day, with the Queen Emilia's blessing, to wear this crown bequeathed to him by the late King Theodore."
"He?" The girl swung upon me, scornfully incredulous.
"Even he, Princess. In proof I can show you King Theodore's deed of gift, signed with his own hand and attested."