Was our Lady asleep there in her corner? The trooper from his furthest side of the pavement, glanced through the corner of one eye, just daring to see her white robe shine against the black of his cloak upon the flags. He had not courage to really look at her, even if she slept, but paced his beat slowly from end to end, nine paces, and nine paces, inventing conversation all the time in which he made her seem to speak to him.
Somebody was coming up within the tower, and Browne at the stairhead waited ready to fire. A man?—the trooper boiled over at his insolence. Sir Myles Strangford, indeed!
"Get down," he whispered hoarsely. "Our Lady is here. Get down with you!"
"Who is it?" asked her Majesty. "What—Sir Myles? Don't go."
"Madam, forgive me," Sir Myles bowed to her. "I didn't know. Let me retire."
"No, stay, Sir Myles."
"Madam," he bowed again, "I couldn't sleep."
"Nor I. Come, sit in the shelter here and talk to me."
The Secretary for War sat down at our Lady's feet. "Tried to drug myself," he said frankly; "daren't take another drop—and sleep! How could I sleep?"
"It's not for you or for me," said Margaret. "'And so He giveth His beloved sleep'—only His beloved, you see—not for us."