There was little Allard could not have forgiven to Adrian for sending Dalmorov to make that apology.
"I beg a thousand pardons, sire," he answered contentedly as he crossed the room.
After all Adrian did not look at his ship, but remained leaning against the window with his reflective gaze fixed on the other's face.
"I wonder," he remarked, when the door had closed behind Dalmorov, "if you do things like that because you are an American."
Surprised, Allard smiled involuntarily.
"Perhaps, sire, we are rather sans gêne."
"You misunderstand me," he corrected. "I mean, do you act as the others would not, because you are not my subject as they are?"
Allard understood then, and the implied accusation stung him to hot anger.
"No, sire," he flashed. "I have not lived under your shelter and eaten your bread to hide beneath another flag when the scale turns. I am an American, yes, but I do not use my nationality as a cloak for cowardice. So far, I have become your subject by entering your service."
Not until long afterward did Allard read the slow, half-amused smile that rose to the surface of the Emperor's dark eyes.