“You are good to none,” she replied, bitterly; “for you are not good to Charles.”
“You speak enigmas,” he said, curious.
“Have you forgotten your promise?” she asked, naïvely.
“Nay; the passport, pretty one?” he answered, amused at the woman’s wiles. “All this subterfuge of words for that! There; rest in peace. Thy friend hath a path to France at will.”
He smiled kindly as he took the passport from his girdle, handed it to her and turned to take his leave.
“My thanks are yours. Stay, Sire,” she said, hastily; for her mission was not yet complete and the night was now well gone. “Passports are trifles. Will you not leave the Dutch to Louis and his army? Think!”
She placed her arms about his neck and looked enticingly into his eyes.
“But,” he replied, kindly, “my people demand that I intervene and stay my brother Louis’s aggressive hand.”
“Are the people king?” she asked, with coy insinuation. “Do they know best for England’s good? Nay, Sire, for your good and theirs, I beseech, no more royal sympathy for Holland. I speak to avoid entanglements for King Charles and to make his reign the greater. I love you, Sire.” She fell upon her knee. “I speak for the glory of England.”
His Majesty was influenced by her beauty and her arts,–what man would not be?–but more by the sense of what she said.