'Your promise, fair one,' he insisted quietly, 'to let me see your sweet face to-night! I swore it to myself just now, when you threw me a glance across the room, that I would look into your eyes untrammelled. Your promise!—or I vow that I'll do something desperate!'
'Heavens above!' she exclaimed, keeping her attention deliberately fixed on Maître Jehan. 'If he should strike one of these gentlemen—he—a mere servant!...'
'If he does,' riposted Gilles lightly, 'I will take up his quarrel, with this token tied to my sword-hilt.' And from the inner pocket of his doublet he drew a tiny, perfumed rag, held it in his hand and waved it with an ostentatious flourish for her to see.
She gave a quick, involuntary little cry of alarm: 'My handkerchief!'
'Undoubtedly, fair one!' he said coolly. 'It hath your initials and crown embroidered in the corner! Think you Messire de Landas' choler will cool at sight of it?'
Her forehead, her tiny ears, her neck and chin, everything that he could see of her dainty face, had become suffused with a warm blush.
'Messire!' she said firmly, 'I command you to give me back that handkerchief, which you stole unawares.'
'It was flung at me with a sheaf of lilies, which, alas! have withered. 'Tis my right hand which shall wither ere I part from the handkerchief.'
'My handkerchief!' she reiterated impatiently.
'Only with my life! But it shall lie for ever hidden against my heart if you will promise...'