"You do not happen to possess worlds, dear lady. All that you have is youth and beauty and ambition, and life. You would forfeit all those treasures if you really tried to atone."
"But——"
"Lady Blakeney is a prisoner. . . . You are her jailer. . . . Her precious life is the hostage for yours."
"Milor——" she murmured.
"From my heart, I wish you well, fair one," he broke in lightly. "Believe me, the pagan gods that fashioned you did not design you for tragedy. . . . And if you ran counter to your friend Chauvelin's desires, I fear me that pretty neck of yours would suffer. A thing to be avoided at all costs! And now," he added, "have I your permission to go? My position here is somewhat precarious, and for the next four days I cannot afford the luxury of entertaining so fair a lady, by running my head into a noose."
He was on the point of going when she placed a restraining hand upon his arm.
"Milor!" she pleaded.
"At your service, dear lady!"
"Is there naught I can do for you?"
He looked at her for a moment or two, and even through the gloom she caught his quizzical look and the mocking lines around his firm lips.