“Your master will not allow you.”
The Frenchman leaned upon the table, a patient beneficent expression on his scarred features, and spoke to her gently, as one who must deal with a petulant, unreasonable child.
“My dear, let me put a quietus for ever upon your mad idea that any help is to be expected from the King. I beg you to believe that I speak the exact truth. Do you know what the King thinks of you?”
“He does not think of me at all. He has forgotten me.”
“Pardon me. There you are mistaken. He thinks you came to Whitehall the day of your father’s death to assassinate him. He believes that I imperilled my life to save his. The scars of your claws, however repulsive they may be to others, are to him a constant reminder of his supposed debt to me. Judge you then, my dear, what your position in Oxford would be did the King but dream you had crept surreptitiously into his stronghold. Need I say more?”
“No. But you should have paid better heed to what I said.”
“What did you say?”
“I said your master would not permit you to injure me.”
“But I have shown you that the King——”
“I am not speaking of the King. Your master is Oliver Cromwell.”