“And if I had not heard that your Majesty was a very perfect, true lover,” Brilliana went on. “Your Majesty’s love for the gracious lady now in France is the admiration of your subjects.”
A faint color glowed on the King’s pale cheeks. He was indeed the perfect, true lover of Henrietta Maria, and the greatest sorrow of all the clustering sorrows that the civil war had brought him was her absence from his side.
“It would be strange indeed if I did not love such a lady,” he said, gently; “but that lady is my queen, my wife, my comrade, my loyal friend, while he you plead for is but an acquaintance of a few days, and, moreover, in all thoughts and deeds your enemy—and mine.”
Brilliana had now risen to her feet and she faced the king valiantly, for she knew that she would have to plead hard and well.
“Your Majesty,” she answered, “as for the acquaintanceship, one of our poets has said, ‘Whoever loves that loves not at first sight?’ and though indeed at first sight I was far from giving this gentleman my love, I saw in him at once those qualities which in a man deserve love. As for his enmity, we are told that we should love our enemies.”
A frown overspread the King’s face and Brilliana faltered.
“I cannot claim for myself that wealth of charity,” Charles said, “that would make me love those that by rebellion and contumacy have plunged poor England into war.”
“Sire, sire,” Brilliana sighed, “if you will but pardon this gentleman I will promise you that I will never love another of your Majesty’s enemies.”
Charles frowned.
“I do not like your loyalty. Why do you plead for the life of a rebel?”