"Madam, do I owe you no apology?"
"I think none, your Grace. You acted as the woman you took me for might, I suppose, expect. Let me go."
A singular thing happened here. The Duke, the haughtiest and coldest of men, bent his knee and carried her hand to his lips. So on Birthnights he kissed the late Queen's hand, she standing before the Throne. Then stood very grave. "Madam, I entreat your pardon. I have shown you a side of a man's character very unfitting for your eyes and you but the child you are. Forgive me, and ere we part for ever, answer me one question, in token of your pardon. Had I been but James Hamilton, the lowest of my clan--could you have honoured me with any regard?"
She stammered, trembling before this melancholy gentleness.
"I know not."
He persisted, gentle but firm:
"We have perhaps something to pardon each other. I ask again--would this have been possible?"
Constrained, she sought for breath. Because a cold handsome face softens, because distrust is melted, shall a woman let her heart fly like a bird to a man's bosom?
"Sir, you ask more than I can answer."
Still the eyes insisted, and now the strong hand held hers.