He glanced at Stephanu, who nodded.

“Farewell then, O Princess; and if this be the end of our service, forgive what in the past has been done amiss.  Farewell, O cavalier, and be happy to protect her in perils wherein we were powerless.”

The Princess stretched out both hands.

“Nay, mistress,” said Marc’antonio, with another glance at Stephanu; “but first cross them, that there be no telling the right from the left:  for we are two jealous men.”

She crossed them obediently, and the two took each a hand and kissed it.

Now all this while I could see that she was struggling for speech, and as they released her hands she found it.

“But wherefore must you go by Nonza, O Marc’antonio?  And how many will you take with you?”

Marc’antonio put the first question aside.  “We go alone, Princess.  You may call it a reconnaissance, on which the fewer taken the better.”

“You will not kill him!  Nay, then, O Marc’antonio, at least—­at least you will not hurt him!”

“We hope, Princess, that there will be no need,” he answered seriously, and, saluting once more, turned on his heel.  Stephanu also saluted and turned, and the pair, falling into step, went from us across the clearing.

I watched them till their forms disappeared in the undergrowth, and turned to my bride.

“And now, Princess, I believe you have something to say to me.  Shall it be here?  I will not suggest the cottage, which is overfull maybe of unpleasant reminders; but here is a tree-trunk, if you will be seated.”

“That shall be as my lord chooses.”

I laughed.  “Your lord chooses, then, that you take a seat.  It seems (I take your word for it) that there must be hard thoughts between us.  Well, a straight quarrel is soonest ended, they say:  let us have them out and get them over.”

“Ah, you hurt!  Is it necessary that you hurt so?” Her eyes no less than her voice sobered me at once, shuddering together as though my laugh had driven home a sword and it grated on the bone.  I remembered that she always winced at laughter, but this evident anguish puzzled me.

“God knows,” said I, “how I am hurting you.  But pardon me.  Speak what you have to speak; and I will be patient while I learn.”

“‘A lifetime of dishonour,’ you said, and yet you laugh . . .  A lifetime of dishonour, and you were blithe to be shot and escape it; yet now you laugh.  Ah, I cannot understand!”

“Princess!” I protested, although not even now did I grasp what meaning she had misread into my words.

“But you said rightly.  It is a lifetime of dishonour you have suffered them to put on you:  and I—­I have taken more than life from you, cavalier—­yet I cannot grieve for you while you laugh.  O sir, do not take from me my last help, which is to honour you!”

“Listen to me, Princess,” said I, stepping close and standing over her.  “What do you suppose that I meant by using those words?  They were your own words, remember.”