“You are a red monk!” said Bessee, amazed.
“That’s his shell, Bessee,” said her father; “he has come a-masking, and forgot his part.”
“I don’t like masking,” said Bessee, trying to get away.
“Then we will mask no more,” said Edward. “Thou hast looked in my face long enough with those great black eyes. Dost know me, child?”
Bessee cast the black eyes down, and coloured.
“Dost know me?” he repeated.
“I think,” she whispered at last, “that you are masking still. You are like—like the King that was crowned at the Abbey.”
“Well said, little maid! And shall I take thee home, and give thee pearls and emeralds to braid thy locks, instead of these heath-bells?”
“Father,” said Bessee, trying to withdraw her little hands out of Edward’s large one, which held both fast. “O father, is he masking still?”
“No, child; it is the King indeed,” said Henry. “Hear what he saith to thee.”