'Messire, you are committing a base and unworthy act!'
'I know it,' he said with a smile. 'But I must have that promise.'
'Promise of what?' she asked breathlessly, driven into a corner by his obstinacy.
'To let me look straight into your eyes to-night,' he said, 'unfettered by that hideous mask.'
He leaned forward so that his face now was quite close to hers, and he could feel her quick breath against his cheek.
'No, no!' she said with a little gasp. 'My guardian—and—and M. de Landas——'
'Very well!' he said dryly, and began quietly winding the little rag around his sword-hilt.
'Messire!' she said in a peremptory tone, through which a note of appeal, if not of genuine alarm this time, could be distinctly perceived.
'Promise!' he reiterated relentlessly.
Just then she caught sight of de Landas, who, flushed with choler, was thrusting somewhat wildly at Maître Jehan. She thought that his eyes were constantly wandering in her direction and that he was vainly trying to get near her, past his sturdy opponent, who was guarding the approach to his master's chair with all the fierceness of a Cerberus. Somehow, at sight of de Landas thus fighting with almost savage violence, she lost her head for the moment. Of a truth, the matter of the handkerchief might lead to a very bitter quarrel between her lover and this stranger. A very bitter quarrel—and worse! De Landas was wont to lose all self-control when jealous rage had hold of him, was as quick with his dagger as with his rapier! And here was this tantalizing troubadour calmly preparing to flaunt upon his sword-hilt the handkerchief which bore her name and coronet. He looked up and caught the sparkle of her eyes.