I turned on him, staring:  and in the flicker of his eyes as he lifted them for one instant towards his master, I read the whole devilish cunning of the plot.  They might securely let her go, as an Englishman’s widow.  The fact had merely to be proclaimed and the islanders would have none of her.  I am glad to remember that—­my brain keeping clear, albeit my pulse, already fast enough, leapt hotly and quickened its speed—­I had presence of mind to admire the suggestion coolly, impersonally, and quite as though it affected me no jot.

The Commandant bent his brows.  Behind them—­as it seemed to me—­I could read his thought working.

“If you, sir, have no objection,” he said slowly, looking up and addressing me with grave politeness, “I see much to be said for the reverend father’s proposal.”

He turned to the Prince, who—­cur that he was—­directed his spiteful glee upon his sister.

“It appears, O Camilla, that in our race to save each other’s honour I am to be winner.  Nay, you may wear your approaching widowhood with dignity, and boast in time to come that your husband once bore the crown of Corsica.”

“Prince Camillo,” said the Commandant, quietly, “I am here to-night in the strict service of my Republic, to do my best for her:  but I warn you that if you a second time address your sister in that tone I shall reserve the right to remember it later as a plain Genoese gentleman.  Sir,” he faced about and addressed me again, “am I to understand that you accept?”

I looked at the Princess.  She met my look proudly, with eyes set in a face pale as death.  I could not for the life of me read whether they forbade me or implored.  They seemed to forbid, protest . . . and yet (the bliss of it!) for one half instant they had also seemed to implore.  Thank God at least they did not scorn!

“Princess,” I said, “these men propose to do me an infinite honour—­ an honour far above my deserving—­and to kill me while my heart yet beats with the pride of it.  Yet say to me now if I must renounce it, and I will die bearing you no grudge.  Take thought, not of me, but of yourself only, and sign to me if I must renounce.”

Still she eyed me, pale and unblinking.  Her bosom panted, and for a moment she half-raised her hand; but dropped it again.

“I think, sir,” said I, facing around on the Commandant, I think by this time the day must be breaking.  Will you kindly open the shutters?  Also you would oblige me further—­set it down to an Englishman’s whim—­by forming up your men outside; and we will have a soldier’s wedding.”

“Willingly, cavalier.”  The Commandant stepped to the shutter and unbarred it, letting in daylight with the cool morning breeze—­a greenish-grey daylight, falling across the glade without as softly as ever through cathedral aisles, and a breeze that was wine to the taste as it breathed through the exhausted air of the cottage—­a sacramental dawn, and somewhere deep in the arcades of the tree-boles a solitary bird singing!