“‘He jests at scars who never felt a wound.’”
“You have no proof that your assertion applies to me,” the queen replied tremblingly.
“Your pardon, my liege, but:
“‘Your heart is a snowdrift where foot never trod,
Love’s sun has not wakened a bud on its sod.’”
A laugh rippled sweetly over her lips, like the soft music of a little stream dashing over rocks and pebbles.
“How do you know that?” she queried.
“Because I know you! You are glorious as Mary, Queen of Scots, but not less lovely as Edith, Queen of Hearts!”
She gave a violent start, then, tossing her head, tried to rectify the unconscious admittal that he had penetrated her mask.
“I think you mistake,” she said lightly. “But you show me your secret ‘as a bird betrays its nest by striving to conceal it.’ So you love some cruel, fair maid whose name is Edith?”