“Make way for the queen!” at intervals shouted a man running ahead of the queen and behind Christopher.
On seeing Christopher’s signal she raised her sword, and the palanquin halted. She was anxiously watching the glow from the altar fire, but her glance discovered me, and a surprised joy sprang to her face.
“Am I too late?” she called in English.
“No, your Majesty. All is well.”
“Choseph!” she chokingly cried, throwing her sword away and seizing both my hands.
It was a public scandal. The soldiers stared.
I gave her a warning look, and said, “Your Majesty!”
She drew away with freezing dignity. A soldier picked up her sword, wiped it as he would a baby’s face, knelt, and handed it to her. She slammed it angrily into its scabbard, gave me a crushing glance, and opened her lips to speak, but I drove the words back by suddenly dropping in an obeisance. I would have given a good deal to see her face in the long pause before she bade me rise. My face was grave as I met her angry, suspicious gaze.
“This is no time nor place to make fun of me,” she cuttingly said.
“I beg your Majesty’s pardon.”