Cicely stared at him in amazement.
"Nay, sir, I see no difference. Your words were just."
"Just! madame, they were shameful, infamous! I cannot hope to win your pardon for them. Why, Lady Cicely," he continued with boyish eagerness, "I am grateful to you for your action, most grateful. I count it the highest honour to have been privileged to serve Mistress Barbara, for," he added softly, "I would gladly die a thousand deaths to shield her from pain. I beseech you, madame, be comforted. 'Twas no betrayal, I was a most willing victim at the sacrifice."
But though she smiled faintly Cicely still wept.
"Ah! 'tis kind to say so," she cried, shaking her head, "But for me—for me who betrayed you! What respect, what honour have I left me?"
"Ah! madame, would my tongue had been cut out ere ever I spake those words," he cried miserably.
"Nay, the words were nought. But the deed! The deed remains the same. What must you think of me? Nay, what must I think of myself?"
Bitterly she wept, and he looked down on her in helpless despair.
Then he bent over her tenderly, and gently took her hand.
"Lady Cicely," he said softly, "what would you think of me, had I betrayed you to save Sir Rupert?"