Maurice knew better than to deny it, nor did he move till the Princess cast herself down on the coverlet and sobbed her heart out, with her face on the pillow and her hair spraying in linked tendrils about her white neck and shoulders. Then he went gently to her and laid his hand on her head, regardless of the petulant shrug of her shoulders as he touched her. He gathered her up and sat down with her in his arms.
"Little one," he said, "I want you to be good. This is a great and a glad day. To-day my sister finds the happiness that you and I have found. To-day I am to sit in my father's seat and to have henceforth my own name among men. You must help me. Will you, little one? For this once let me be your tire-woman. I have often done my own tiring when, in old days, I dared death in women's garments for your sweet sake. Dearest, do not hurt my heart any more, but help me."
His wife smiled suddenly through her tears, and cast her arms about his neck.
"Oh, I am bad—bad—bad," she cried vehemently. "It were no wonder if you did not love me. But do keep loving me. I should die else. I will be better—I will—I will! I do not know why I should be so bad. Sometimes I think I cannot help it."
But Maurice kissed her and smiled as if he knew.
"We will live like plain and honest country folk, you and I," he said. "Let Anna and Martha follow their war-captains. Thora at least will remain with us, and we will make Johannes Rode our almoner and court poet. Now smile at me, little one! Ah, that is better."
In Margaret's April eyes the sun shone out again, and she clung lovingly to her husband a long moment before she would let him go.
Then she thrust him a little away from her, that she might see his face, as she asked the question of all loving and tempestuous Princess Margarets, "Are you sure you love me just the same, even when I am naughty?"
Maurice was sure.
And taking his face between her hands in a fierce little clutch, she asked a further assurance. "Are you quite, quite sure?" she said.