“It is not in the code,” he said, “that princes may not bestow insults. Your Highness took full advantage of that prerogative in refusing the token.” His eyes were suddenly burning; his lips set grim as judgment. “I have some reason, perhaps, to brood over my injuries,” he said. “They have known no salve, your Highness will understand, since, for friendship’s sake, I essayed a thankless task.”
He was again turning to go, and again she delayed him.
“Monsieur, I entreat you. A friend, I know, may act for a friend against his better inclination, and only because he is a friend. I do not doubt the independence of your mind or the honour of your principles.”
Tiretta bowed stiffly, but in silence.
“I ask you to forgive me,” she said.
It was so sweet and unexpected that for the moment he was quite taken back. Then his face flushed through all its even pallor.
“It is I who should be the petitioner,” he said. “I am your Highness’s sworn henchman from this hour.”
She smiled, rather tremulously, and, turning, signified with a gesture that she would prefer to be the one to go.
“No, monsieur: the grove shall be sacred to its songster. I beg you to continue to consecrate it. As for me, I am frightened already over the scolding I shall get if madame detects me returning through the rain.”
He ventured to delay her one moment: