‘Why will you hate me?’ he said.
‘Have I much reason to love?’ answered Brion, his voice yielding a little.
‘So you do hate me?’
‘Hate connotes harm. I would not harm you, before God.’
‘Will you—for her sake—call me once by that name your duty owes me?’
The boy shook his head. Something rose in his throat, hard as he struggled to resist it. ‘I could not,’ he whispered.
Leicester turned away, without a word. He stood looking down upon the glowing hearth.
‘It may chance, boy,’ he said, in a voice so strange and moving in such a man that it seemed to betray one secret of his influence over impressionable hearts—‘that you judge me too harshly. That I risked greatly where I loved may be no condonation of my fault, yet at least it may testify to the wholeness of my devotion. For my wrong to thee, I regret it. Since there is no remedy, I will say no more. I could take pride in thee, but I may not. It is better we should never meet again. Go, and for her sake remember me as kindly as thou mayst. Call Granton hither.’
But Brion did not at once obey. Pride and emotion fought within him for mastery; his breast heaved; a moisture had sprung to his eyes. Suddenly, with an impulsive movement, he lifted the other’s unresisting hand, and kissed it once gently, and gently put it from him. Then he turned, and went hurriedly to the door, and beckoned to the Captain, who stood with his men in the hall. The soldier strode to the summons.
‘Granton,’ said his lord, without turning his head, ‘restore this youth his sword, and let him free. He is my friend, Granton.’