“Your Majesty asked me for the truth;” he said; “I have spoken it!”
Her lips parted in a cold, strained little smile.
“And—you—think,” she said slowly; “that I—I am what you call ‘jealous’ of this ‘one woman’? Had jealousy been in my nature, it would have been provoked sufficiently often since my marriage!”
“Madam,” responded Sir Roger humbly; “If I may dare to say so to your Majesty, it is not possible to a noble woman to be jealous of a man’s mere humours of desire! But of Love—Love, the crown, the glory and supremacy of life,—who, with a human heart and human blood, would not be jealous? Who would not give kingdoms, thrones, ay, Heaven itself, if it were not in itself Heaven, for its rapturous oblivion of sorrow, and its full measure of joy!”
A dead silence fell between them, only disturbed by a small silver chime in the distance, striking midnight.
The Queen again seated herself, and drew her book towards her. Then raising her lovely unfathomable eyes, she looked at the tall stately figure of the man before her with a slight touch of pity and pathos.
“Possibly you may be right,” she said slowly, “Possibly wrong! But I do not doubt that you yourself personally ‘feel’ all that you express,—and—that you are faithful!”
Here she extended her hand. Sir Roger bowed low over it, and kissed its delicate smoothness with careful coldness. As she withdrew it again, she said in a low dreamy, half questioning tone:
“The woman’s name is Lotys?”
Silently Sir Roger bent his head in assent.