"Mademoiselle, do not apologize to me!" I cried. "If there are any apologies to be made, it is I who should make them for not knowing how to understand and appreciate what you felt."
A quick radiance sprang into her eyes, and with a childlike abandon she extended both her hands to me.
"Then you forgive me?" she cried.
I took one hand and held it in both mine, and as I bent my knee I lifted it to my lips.
"If I am forgiven, my Queen," I answered softly.
Her dark eyes, tender and glorious, looked down into mine. For a moment I forgot she was a great lady in France; to me she was only the most bewitching and adorable maiden in the wide world. She was wearing a heavy capote to shield her from the weather, but the hood had fallen slightly back, and the falling sleet had spangled the little fringe of curls about her face with diamonds that sparkled in the candle-shine, but were not half so bright as her starry eyes. I could have knelt forever on the icy deck if I might have gazed forever into their heavenly depths. But in a minute she let the white lids fall over them.
"Rise, Monsieur," she said gently. "You are forgiven, but on one condition."
"Name it, my Queen!" And I rose to my feet, but still held her hand. "No condition can be too hard."
"That you come to supper with us to-night, and to every meal while I am on your boat."
The condition fetched me back to earth with a shock. I remembered all the cause, and I answered moodily: