“O brave one!  O beloved!”

I stretched out my hand, but she turned from the caress, and hurried on with her tale, her eyes still fastened on the distant plain, her voice held level on the tone of a child reciting its task.

“The jeweller, too, asked many questions.  I think he was suspicious at my coming twice in a few hours.  But the sardonyx was a finer stone than the amethyst, and he ended by giving me three hundred and fifty livres.  Two of the men were loitering for me outside the shop.  I gave them a false address and walked home quickly, longing to run but not daring.  To mislead the men, in case they were following, I made first for the house by the archway, and there on the stairs I met the woman coming down with a bundle of stuff.

“I bargained with her, then and there.  There was a horrible man belonging to the house, and at night-fall he fetched you, a little before the carts arrived; and this was not a minute too soon.  For a crowd came with the carts.  While the loading went on they stood around the door, calling out vile jokes, and afterwards they followed through the streets, waving torches and beating upon old pans.  I sat in the second cart, among half a dozen women.  My face was painted, and I smiled when they smiled.  But you lay under the straw at my feet; and when the gate was passed, while the women were calling back insults to the soldiers there, I gave thanks to Our Lady.

“Beloved, that is my story.  At Tortona I parted from the women, and hired the waggon which brought us the rest of the way.  But I had done better, perhaps, to go with them to Milan, as Gioconda advised.  For my money began to run low, and, save Milan, there was no large town on the road where I could sell another jewel.  Yet here again Our Lady helped; for at Trecate I found the good priest, the brother of these Bavarelli, and he, having heard my tale, offered to travel to Milan and do my business.  So I parted with two more of the stones; and yet a third—­a little one—­I gave him for Our Lady of Trecate, as a thank-offering.  We have money enough to reward these good people, though they lodge us for yet another six months; but the crown has only one stone remaining.  It is a diamond—­set in the very front of the band—­and, I think, more valuable than all the rest.”

Her voice came to a halt.  “O beloved,” she asked after a while, quietly, almost desperately, “why are you silent?  Can you not forgive?”

“Forgive?” I echoed.  “Dear, I was silent, being lost in wonder, in love.  Forget that foolish crown; forget even Corsica!  Soon we will take the diamond and cross the mountains together, to a kingdom better than Corsica.  There,” I wound up, forcing myself to speak lightly, “if ever dispute should arise between us, as king and queen we will ask my uncle Gervase to decide.  He, gallant man, will say, ‘Prosper, to whom do you owe your life?’ . . .”

“The mountains?  Ah, not yet—­not yet!” She put out her hands and crept to me blindly, nestling, pressing her face against my ragged coat.  “A little while,” she sobbed while I held her so.  “A little while!—­until the child—­until our child—­”