He held his cup towards her. She shook her head.
“Not from the King’s cup,” she said. “See, I have a goblet here.”
But Ughtred was insistent.
“I have the weakness of my forefathers,” he declared, “and I am superstitious. It will be for my good fortune, and the good fortune of Theos. You shall drink with me from the King’s cup.”
A spot of colour burned in the girl’s cheeks. She drew back. A swift glance passed between brother and sister. It was Reist who answered.
“Your Highness,” he said, gravely, “in this little corner of the earth we hold hard to all our old traditions, and for more than a hundred years—ay, since first that cup was fashioned, none have drunk from it save only those of the royal House, and——”
He hesitated. Ughtred waited for him to continue.
“And their betrothed.”
Ughtred started. Marie looked downwards, and the deep colour mounted even to her forehead. There was a moment’s silence. Then the spirit of obstinacy which had been kindled in Ughtred prevailed.
“I take upon my own shoulders,” he said, smiling, “all the evil that may come of it, and I pray, Countess Marie, that you will honour me by drinking from my cup.”