She clasped her hands tightly.
"How I do love thee, thou excellent gentleman," she murmured, "even with an affection that is so beyond modesty and reason that if thou wert here I could avow it to thy face! God protect thee, dear, loyal lord!"
The sun had now sunk behind the trees and hedges of the orchard; the last bee had flown; the roses gave forth their strength in a more intense perfume; the sky changed to a sparkling violet, glimmering with rosy gold in the west.
The Queen called Margaret Lucas, and, putting the little Princess in her arms, bid her go and take the child to her women.
Margaret made her grave and humble obeisances and withdrew, holding the King's youngest born over a joyful heart.
"Mary," said Charles, taking his wife's hand, "if I fail to-morrow you will go to France. Promise me."
"You must not fail," she answered passionately. "But I give you this promise if it makes you fight with a lighter conscience."
"A light conscience!" echoed the King. "Methinks I shall never own a light conscience again."
"You are too discouraged," murmured the Queen, but with a kind of lassitude.