"My Lord," said Agnes, "I humbly wait your pleasure. Anything that a poor maiden may rightly do I will endeavor, in all loving duty."
"Whom do you take me for, Agnes, that you speak thus?" said the cavalier, smiling sadly.
"Are you not the brother of our gracious King?" said Agnes.
"No, dear maiden; and if the kind promise you lately made me is founded on this mistake, it may be retracted."
"No, my Lord," said Agnes,—"though I now know not who you are, yet if in any strait or need you seek such poor prayers as mine, God forbid I should refuse them!"
"I am, indeed, in strait and need, Agnes; the sun does not shine on a more desolate man than I am,—one more utterly alone in the world; there is no one left to love me. Agnes, can you not love me a little?—let it be ever so little, it shall content me."
It was the first time that words of this purport had ever been addressed to Agnes; but they were said so simply, so sadly, so tenderly, that they somehow seemed to her the most natural and proper things in the world to be said; and this poor handsome knight, who looked so earnest and sorrowful,—how could she help answering, "Yes"? From her cradle she had always loved everybody and every thing, and why should an exception be made in behalf of a very handsome, very strong, yet very gentle and submissive human being, who came and knocked so humbly at the door of her heart? Neither Mary nor the saints had taught her to be hard-hearted.
"Yes, my Lord," she said, "you may believe that I will love and pray for you; but now you must leave me, and not come here any more,—because grandmamma would not be willing that I should talk with you, and it would be wrong to disobey her, she is so very good to me."
"But, dear Agnes," began the cavalier, approaching her, "I have many things to say to you,—I have much to tell you."
"But I know grandmamma would not be willing," said Agnes; "indeed, you must not come here any more."