There was moisture in Guida’s eyes as she presently said: “I had not thought that any man could be so noble—no, not even you.”
“You should not doubt yourself so,” he answered meaningly. “I am the work of your hands. If I have fought my way back to reputable life again—”
He paused, and took from his pocket a handkerchief. “This was the gage,” he said, holding it up. “Do you remember the day I came to return it to you, and carried it off again?”
“It was foolish of you to keep it,” she answered softly, “as foolish of you as to think that I shall accept for my child these great honours.”
“But suppose the child in after years should blame you?” he answered slowly and with emphasis. “Suppose that Guilbert should say, What right had you, my mother, to refuse what was my due?”
This was the question she had asked herself long, long ago. It smote her heart now. What right had she to reject this gift of Fate to her child?
Scarcely above a whisper she replied: “Of course he might say that, but how, oh, how should we simple folk, he and I, be fitted for these high places—yet? Now that what I desired all these years for him has come, I have not the courage.”
“You have friends to help you in all you do,” he answered meaningly.
“But friends cannot always be with one,” she answered.
“That depends upon the friends. There is one friend of yours who has known you for eighteen years. Eighteen years’ growth should make a strong friendship—there was always friendship on his part at least. He can be a still stronger and better friend. He comes now to offer you the remainder of a life for which your own goodness is the guarantee. He comes to offer you a love of which your own soul must be the only judge, for you have eyes that see and a spirit that knows. The Chevalier needs you, and the Duc de Mauban needs you, but Detricand of Vaufontaine needs you a thousand times more.”