"Lady Cecil, I could not go upon my way without one word of parting. Pardon me if I have been too rash to seek it here."
Why was it that his brief frank words ever pleased her better than Belamour's most honeyed phrases, Millamont's suavest periods? She scarcely could have told, save that there were in them an earnestness and truth new and rare to her ear and to her heart.
She pressed her hand closer on the opals—the jewels of calamity—and smiled:
"Assuredly I wish you God speed, Sir Fulke, and safe issue from all perils."
He bowed low; then raised himself to his fullest height, and stood beside her, watching the light play upon the opals:
"That is all you vouchsafe me?"
"All? It is as much as you would claim, sir, is it not? It is more than I would say to many."
"Your pardon—it is more than I should claim if prudence were ever by, if reason always ruled! I have no right to ask for, seek for, even wish for, more; such petitions may only be addressed by men of wealth and of high title; a landless soldier should have no pride to sting, no heart to wound; they are the prerogative of a happier fortune."
Her lips turned white, but she answered haughtily; the crimson light flashing in her jewels, heirlooms priceless and hereditary, like her beauty and her pride:
"This is strange language, sir! I fail to apprehend you."