“If this,” said he, in a gripping voice, and pulling off his mask, “is to make me the victim of some foul conspiracy, it fails with you, my lady. I know you. You need pretend no longer.”
She plucked off her vizard, and, throwing it with a gesture of scorn on the grass, stood proudly up before him.
“Well guessed, sir,” she said. “But you were not so happy in your choice a moment ago. Was it the green bow deceived you?”
“Yes, by God, it was, madam, though you may sneer. I looked for it on none but you.”
“On me?” Her eyes opened, amazed. “And why, please?”
“Because I was privily informed you were to wear it.”
“Indeed? And for whose benefit?”
“Will you ask it”—he stepped aside, flinging out his arm towards his Highness, who stood silent, gnawing his forefinger—“and this Kit, this damning witness to your guilt, to answer for it to your face? Did I not find you with him but now? For shame, madam! But he shall pay for his temerity with his life.”
“You are mad,” she said, in a voice of wonder. “I never saw you. I thought him you, and that he had accosted me, taking me for Kit.”
“You Kit? Why, in God’s name? Kit’s a man.”