"The Princess Miranda begs to inform Enrico Armand, Prince of Alcador, Duc de Choleaux Lasuer, Baron Diaz, Count of the Holy Roman Empire, etc., etc., that she cannot accept the return of anything which she has graciously bestowed upon him—even her freedom."
And saying this, Galva jumped lightly up from the moss-covered boulder upon which she had been sitting, and, smiling mockingly, bowed low before the young man who stood leaning moodily against the straight bole of a pine-tree.
"But, Galva, my honour——"
"Honour, indeed! And does my happiness count for nothing? Does my honour not weigh with you? Is it honourable to ask a young girl to show you the treasure-house of her heart and then turn away? Perhaps the wares don't suit. Perhaps——"
"Galva!"
"No, you must hear me out. Oh, I wish that we were just poor ordinary people, so that we could live only for each other, perhaps away in my lovely Cornwall. But, dear, we aren't just poor ordinary people, and we must go where we are called."
The girl turned and pointed to where the dull crimson of the setting sun shone in the windows of the royal residence.
"There, Armand, is my future home, perched up there above the people whom God has given me to rule. It is for you to make it, for me, a Purgatory or a Paradise—a prison or a home."
She held out her little white hands pathetically and stood there among the trees, her queenly head thrown slightly back, her lips just parted, and with the love-light smiling from under the blue of her lids. And the duke looked at her for a moment—then, with a glad little cry, took her into his arms and kissed her on the lips.
"And now," said the princess as they walked up to a fallen tree trunk which lay half embedded in the undergrowth, "we will sit here and wait for Mr. Sydney—and we won't talk any more nonsense, will we?"