Anne waited for a moment or two.  His attitude puzzled her.  She had become so accustomed to the fierce directness of his stare that its absence disconcerted her.

“What is it you wish to say to me?” she asked at length.

At the first sound of her voice he ceased to work, but still he did not raise his eyes.

“On my own account—­nothing,” he said, speaking very deliberately.  “But as my sojourn here may be an offence to you, I think it advisable to explain at the outset that I am not a free agent.  My brother has decreed it, and as you know”—­a hint of irony crept into his voice—­“his will is my law.”

“I understand,” said Anne gravely, but even as she spoke she was asking herself what possible motive had prompted this explanation.

He jerked up his head and she caught the glint of his fiery eyes for an instant.  “You—­care for Lucas, Lady Carfax?” he said.

Her heart gave a sudden throb that hurt her intolerably.  For a moment she could not speak.

Then, “Yes,” she said.  “I love him.”

Nap was pulling mechanically at the rag he held.  It began to tear between his hands.  She watched him ripping it to shreds.

Suddenly he seemed to realise what he was doing, and tossed it from him.  He looked her straight in the eyes.

“Have you fixed the date for your coronation?” he asked.

Her eyes fell instantly.  “Will you tell me what you mean?” she said.

“Is my meaning obscure?”

She compelled herself to answer him steadily.  “If you mean our marriage, it will not take place for some time, possibly not this year.”

“Why not?” said Nap.  “Are you a slave to etiquette?”

The thing sounded preposterous on his lips.  She faintly smiled.  “The decision does not lie with me.”

“Ah!” he said shrewdly.  “The privilege of kings!  You will still be a queen before you are thirty.  And your first act will be to expel the court jester—­if he waits to be expelled.”

She saw his grim smile for an instant, and knew that he was playing his old fencing game with her, but at the same time she knew that there was no antagonism behind his point.  How the knowledge came to her she could not have said, but she realised afterwards that it was at that moment that she began to perceive that the devil had gone out of Nap Errol.  The conviction was slow in growing, but it was then that it first took root; it was then that her fear of the man began to die away.

She raised her eyes.  “Why should I do that, Nap?”

He made her a deep bow.  “Because I have been unfortunate enough to incur your displeasure.”

There was a moment of silence, then, in obedience to that instinct to which in rare moments she yielded herself and which never played her false, Anne held out her hand to him.  “I forgive you,” she said.

He started.  He evidently had not expected that from her.  Perhaps he had not wanted it.  Later she wondered.  But he showed no awkwardness of indecision.  Only once had she ever seen him at a loss, and of that once she would never voluntarily think again.