"But you could not know that I was to ride saddle to the Coq d'Or!" I insisted.
"No, but I saddled two horses," she replied, delighted at my wonder, "two horses, monsieur, one of which stood ready in the stalls of the Coq d'Or! So when you came a-horseback, it was not necessary to use the spare mount I had led there at a gallop. Now do you see, Mr. Renault? All this I did for you, inspired by—foresight, which you lack!"
"I see that you are as wise and witty as you are beautiful!" I exclaimed warmly, and caught her fingers to kiss them, but she would have none of my caress, urging me to write further, and make suitable excuse for what had happened.
"It is not best to confess that we are still unwedded," I said, perplexed.
"No. They suppose we are; let be as it is," she answered. "And you shall not say that you were a spy, either, for that must only pain Sir Peter and his lady. They will never believe Walter Butler, for they think I fled with you because I could not endure him. And—perhaps I did," she added; and that strange smile colored her eyes to deepest azure.
"Then what remains to say?" I asked, regarding her thoughtfully.
"Say we are happy, Carus."
"Are you?"
"Truly I am, spite of all I complain of. Write it!"
I wrote that we were happy; and, as I traced the words, a curious thrill set my pen shaking.