“And do you know what it has taught me?”

Again there sounded in his voice that new mastery that had so strangely overwhelmed her.

She shrank a little as it reached her, and turned her face aside.  “I can guess,” she said.

“And is it good at guessing that you are?”

He drew nearer to her with the words, but he did not offer to touch her.

She stood motionless, her head bent lest he should see, and understand, the piteous quivering of her lips.  With immense effort she made reply: 

“It has taught you to hate and despise me, as—­as I deserve.”

“Faith!” he said.  “You think that—­honestly now?”

The mastery had all gone out of his voice.  It was soft with that caressing quality she knew of old—­that tenderness, half-humorous, half-persuasive, that had won her heart so long, so long ago.  She did not answer him—­for she could not.

He waited for the space of a score of seconds, standing close to her, yet still not touching her, looking down in silence at the proud dark head abased before him.

At last:  “It’s myself that’ll have to tell you, after all,” he said gently, “for sure it’s the only way to make you understand.  It’s taught me that we can both be winners, dear, if we play the game squarely, just as we have both been losers all these weary years.  But we will have to be partners from this day forward.  So just put your little hand in mine, and it’ll be all right, mavourneen!  Pat’ll understand!”

She moved at that—­moved sharply, convulsively, passionately.  For a moment her eyes met his; for a moment she seemed on the verge of amazed questioning, even of vehement protest.

But—­perhaps the grey eyes that looked straight and steadfast into her own made speech seem unnecessary—­for she only whispered, “St. Patrick!” in a voice that trembled and broke.

And “Princess!  My Princess!” was all he answered as he took her into his arms.