"Why did she give it to you?"
"To protect her, Sire."
The monarch's countenance became more thoughtful; less acrimonious. How the present seemed involved in the past! Were kings, then, enmeshed in the web of their own acts? Were even the gods not exempt from retributory justice? Those were days of superstition, when a coincidence assumed the importance of inexorable destiny.
"Once was it drawn against me," said Francis, reflectively.
"I trust, Sire, it may never again be drawn by an enemy of your Majesty."
The king did not reply, but stood as a man who yet took counsel with himself.
"By what right," he asked, finally, "do you speak for the lady?"
moment the duke looked disconcerted. "By
what right?"
Then swiftly he regarded the girl. As quickly—a flash it seemed—her dark eyes made answer, their language more potent than words. He could but understand; doubt and misgiving were forgotten; the hesitation vanished from his manner. Hastily crossing to her side, he took her hand and unresistingly it lay in his. His heart beat faster; her sudden acquiescence filled him with wonder; at the same time, his task seemed easier. To protect her now! The king coughed ironically, and the duke turned from her to him.
"By what right, your Majesty?" he said in a voice which sounded different to Francis. "This lady is my affianced bride, Sire."