Gone! Aye! but not past recall.
She started, the crimson flushing to her brows at the thought.
Could she—could she not follow him and beg him to return, seeing he had gone in misunderstanding, deeming her ungrateful, unkind? Nay, did she not owe it to her love to do so, seeing he had left her apprehending that she loved another?
But could she, indeed, do this? Could she, Barbara Winslow, follow any man and beg him to return to her, as it would seem, kneeling before him to entreat his favour; she who hitherto had walked ever as proudest among women? The thought angered her.
And yet, she loved him, and perchance, nay, surely, he loved her. Must two lives be darkened because she feared to lower her pride? Men might look askance upon her deed, but—she loved him. Was her love so poor a thing that it could be dishonoured by so small a thought? If love was worthy of aught, surely it was worthy of courage.
She loved him, was he not her king, a man to whom a queen might be proud to stoop!
Thus was she tortured, now daring, now shrinking, till her pride faded in the glory of her love, and she raised her head proudly to the free heavens, resolved upon her course.
She hastened to the stables, and with her own hands saddled her horse. There Cicely joined her, wondering.
"What would you, Barbara?" she asked.
"I will follow him," she answered calmly, "to beg him not to leave me."