Mary lost no time, but began the attack at once.

“Now, sir, I want you to tell me the truth; why do you refuse my invitations and so persistently keep away from me?  I thought at first I would simply let you go your way, and then I thought I—­would not.  Don’t deny it.  I know you won’t.  With all your faults, you don’t tell even little lies; not even to a woman—­I believe.  Now there is a fine compliment—­is it not?—­when I intended to scold you!” She gave a fluttering little laugh, and, with hanging head, continued:  “Tell me, is not the king’s sister of quality sufficient to suit you?  Perhaps you must have the queen or the Blessed Virgin?  Tell me now?” And she looked up at him, half in banter, half in doubt.

“My duties—­,” began Brandon.

“Oh! bother your duties.  Tell me the truth.”

“I will, if you let me,” returned Brandon, who had no intention whatever of doing anything of the sort.  “My duties now occupy my time in the evening——­”

“That will not do,” interrupted Mary, who knew enough of a guardsman’s duty to be sure it was not onerous.  “You might as well come to it and tell the truth; that you do not like our society.”  And she gave him a vicious little glance without a shadow of a smile.

“In God’s name, Lady Mary, that is not it,” answered Brandon, who was on the rack.  “Please do not think it.  I cannot bear to have you say such a thing when it is so far from the real truth.”

“Then tell me the real truth.”

“I cannot; I cannot.  I beg of you not to ask.  Leave me! or let me leave you.  I refuse to answer further.”  The latter half of this sentence was uttered doggedly and sounded sullen and ill-humored, although, of course, it was not so intended.  He had been so perilously near speaking words which would probably have lighted, to their destruction—­to his, certainly—­the smoldering flames within their breast that it frightened him, and the manner in which he spoke was but a tone giving utterance to the pain in his heart.

Mary took it as it sounded, and, in unfeigned surprise, exclaimed angrily:  “Leave you?  Do I hear aright?  I never thought that I, the daughter and sister of a king, would live to be dismissed by a—­by a—­any one.”

“Your highness—­” began Brandon; but she was gone before he could speak.

He did not follow her to explain, knowing how dangerous such an explanation would be, but felt that it was best for them both that she should remain offended, painful as the thought was to him.

Of course, Mary’s womanly self-esteem, to say nothing of her royal pride, was wounded to the quick, and no wonder.

Poor Brandon sat down upon a stone, and, as he longingly watched her retiring form, wished in his heart he were dead.  This was the first time he really knew how much he loved the girl, and he saw that, with him at least, it was a matter of bad to worse; and at that rate would soon be—­worst.