He found her standing at the gate, among the flowers. She was dressed in white, and some crimson roses were fastened at her neck. Her face was like a child’s, full of gaiety and gladness. Hilary’s heart bounded with the delight it gave him to see her like this. She opened the gate for him, and together they walked towards the house.
“I have been to see Father Amyot,” said Hilary. “He sent for me this morning.”
“Yes,” answered Fleta, quietly. “He had a message to you from me. Are you willing to undertake a tiresome task for one you know so little?”
“My Princess,” murmured Hilary, bending his head as he spoke.
“But not your Queen,” said Fleta, with a laugh full of the glorious insolence only possible to one who had the royal blood in her veins, and knew that a crown was waiting for her.
“Yes, my Queen,” said Hilary.
“If you call me that,” said Fleta, quickly, and in a different tone, “you recognise a royalty not recognised by courtiers.”
“Yes,” replied Hilary simply.
“The royalty of power,” added Fleta, significantly, and with a penetrating look into his eyes.
“Call it what you will,” answered Hilary, “you are my Queen. From this hour I give allegiance.”