"Some one has been telling tales of me, Princess. I confess I am with him more than is strictly warranted."
"I have heard so much of his coldness, his severity," she ventured, her lashes sweeping her round young cheeks. "He, he cares for nothing, no one, they say."
"Oh, no, madame," Allard denied, warmly enlisted in the defense. "That is most unjust. Consider only those from whom such reports come; there is no one living who has more undeserved enemies. I know him capable of love; I have seen it, felt it, lived it. And he works, madame; how he works! The country under his rule gains new life, new hope. Madame, if I might presume, I would implore you to believe nothing of him except what he himself will show you."
She crimsoned before his fervor, but her delicate face expressed no anger at the daring.
"I will not," she assented, still with that strange timidity. "I was frightened at first, but not now, not any more. The Regent is fair, with gray eyes, is he not, monsieur?"
"No, madame; he is very dark," he assured her hastily, his thoughts on Stanief's much-loved face.
Iría smiled, bending her head still lower.
"He is perhaps—fanciful, monsieur? He might do something quite useless and romantic, just for a caprice?"
"Hardly, madame. I think he does nothing without a purpose. He—I believe he has not been very happy, Princess."
"And, is he now?" she asked faintly.