"You can ask Lady Blakeney to forgive you," he said, with a thought more seriousness than was habitual to him, "She is an angel; she might do it."
"And if she does?"
"She will know what to do, to convey her thoughts to me."
"Nay! but I'll do more than that, milor," Theresia continued excitedly. "I will tell her that I shall pray night and day for your deliverance and hers. I will tell her that I have seen you, and that you are well."
"Ah, if you did that——!" he exclaimed, almost involuntarily.
"You would forgive me, too?" she pleaded.
"I would do more than that, fair one. I would make you Queen of France, in all but name."
"What do you mean?" she murmured.
"That I would then redeem the promise which I made to you that evening, in the lane—outside Dover. Do you remember?"
She made no reply, closed her eyes; and her vivid fancy, rendered doubly keen by the mystery which seemed to encompass him as with a supernal mantle, conjured up the vision of that unforgettable evening: the moonlight, the scent of the hawthorn, the call of the thrush. She saw him stooping before her, and kissing her finger-tips, even whilst her ears recalled every word he had spoken and every inflexion of his mocking voice: