“Nay, then, and yea, then—and I put it from me. See, am I not happy now? Upon your friendship I build.”
“Sweet, I did what I could. Leicester filled her ears with poison every day, mixed up your business with great affairs with France, sought to convey that you both were not what you are, until at last I counter-marched him.” She laughed merrily. “Ay, I can laugh now, but it was all hanging by a thread, when my leech sent his letter that brought you to the palace. It had grieved me that I might not seek you or write to you in all those sad days; but the only way to save you was by keeping the Queen’s command; for she had known of Leicester’s visits to you, of your meeting in the maze, and she was set upon it that alone, all alone, you should be tried to the last vestige of your strength. If you had failed—”
“If I had failed—” Angèle closed her eyes and shuddered. “I had not cared for myself, but Michel—”
“If you had failed there had been no need to grieve for Michel. He had not grieved for thee. But see, the wind blows fair, and in my heart I have no fear of the end. You shall go hence in peace. This morning the Queen was happier than I have seen her these many years: a light was in her eye brighter than showeth to the court. She talked of this place, recalled the hours spent here, spoke even softly of Leicester. And that gives me warrant for the future. She has relief in his banishment, and only recalls older and happier days when, if her cares were no greater, they were borne by the buoyancy of girlhood and youth. Of days spent here she talked until mine own eyes went blind. She said it was a place for lovers, and if she knew any two lovers who were true lovers, and had been long parted, she would send them here.”
“There be two true lovers, and they have been long parted,” murmured Angèle.
“But she commanded these lovers not to meet till Trinity Day, and she brooks not disobedience even in herself. How could she disobey her own commands? But”—her eyes were on the greenwood and the path that led into the circle—“but she would shut her eyes to-day and let the world move on without her, let lovers thrive and birds be nesting without heed or hap. Disobedience shall thrive when the Queen connives at it—and so I leave you to your disobedience, sweet.”
With a laugh she sprang to her feet and ran. Amazed and bewildered, Angèle gazed after her. As she stood looking she heard her name called softly.
Turning, she saw Michel. They were alone.