“Amede!” for she felt hurt, deeply wounded by his mistrust of her, when she had so wholly, so fully trusted him.

“I know ...  I know,” he said with quick transition of tone, fearful that he had offended her, striving to master his impatience, to find words which best pleased her young, romantic temperament, “Nay! but you must think me mad....  Mayhap you despise me,” he added with a gentle note of sadness.  “Oh, God! ... mayhap you will turn from me now....”

“No! no!”

“Yet do I worship you ... my saint ... my divinity ... my Suzanne....  You are more beautiful, more adorable than any woman in the world ... and I am so unworthy.”

“You unworthy!” she retorted, laughing gayly through her tears.  “You, my prince, my king! ...”

“Say that once more, my Suzanne,” he murmured with infinite gentleness, “oh! the exquisite sweetness of your voice, which is like dream-music in mine ears....  Oh! to hold you in my arms thus, for ever ... until death, sweeter than life ... came to me in one long passionate kiss.”

She allowed him to put his arms round her now, glad that the darkness hid the blush on her cheeks; thus she loved him, thus she had first learned to love him, ardent, oh, yes! but so gentle, so meek, yet so great and exalted in his selfless patriotism.

“’Tis not of death you should speak, sweet prince,” she said, ineffably happy now that she felt him more subdued, more trusting and fond, “rather should you speak of life ... with me, your own Suzanne ... of happiness in the future, when you and I, hand in hand, will work together for that great cause you hold so dear ... the freedom and liberties of France.”

“Ah, yes!” he sighed in utter dejection, “when that happy time comes ... but ...”

“You do not trust me?” she asked reproachfully.

“With all my heart, my Suzanne,” he replied, “but you are so beautiful, so rich ... and other men ...”

“There are no other men for me,” she retorted simply.  “I love you.”

“Will you prove it to me?”

“How can I?”

“Be mine ... mine absolutely,” he urged eagerly with passion just sufficiently subdued to make her pulses throb.  “Be my wife ... my princess ... let me feel that no one could come between us....”

“But my guardian would never consent,” she protested.

“Surely your love for me can dispense with Sir Marmaduke’s consent....”

“A secret marriage?” she asked, terrified at this strange vista which his fiery imagination was conjuring up before her.

“You refuse? ...” he asked hoarsely.

“No! no! ... but ...”

“Then you do not love me, Suzanne.”

The coolness in his tone struck a sudden chill to her heart.  She felt the clasp of his arms round her relax, she felt rather than saw that he withdrew markedly from her.

“Ah! forgive me! forgive me!” she murmured, stretching her little hands out to him in a pathetic and childlike appeal.  “I have never deceived anyone in my life before....  How could I live a lie? ... married to you, yet seemingly a girl....  Whilst in three months....”