As I approached, she raised her tear-stained face to mine; and I saw that it was still comely, though haggard and weary.
"Who are you?" she said quietly.
"A friend of your Majesty's," I answered.
"'Majesty,' I never was that, since my husband was never really the King."
"Nevertheless, madame, if you will permit, I will address you so; for you, by your acts, have proved yourself a Queen."
She had risen to her feet, and stood looking at me intently.
"Are you the King?" she asked.
"So people have acclaimed me to-day, madame."
"Could you not leave me to my grief, in the midst of your joy?"
"God forbid that I should intrude, madame, on grief such as yours, were it not for the great desire I have to aid, and if possible comfort you; but see," I drew a curtain on one side, making the light of early dawn visible to her, "the night is nearly spent." I dropped the curtain again. "Your Majesty, will you not permit me to escort you to your room, or call one of your ladies, for, next to God, surely one of your own sex could best comfort you?"