The crown I would serve is wrought of love, the throne I would
kneel before is a heart, the sceptre I would follow is in the slender
hand of a woman. I could live and die in the service of my own
choosing. But I am only the humble goat-hunter whose hopes are phantoms,
whose ideals are conceived in impotence."
"That was beautiful," murmured Beverly, looking up, fascinated for the
moment.
"Oh, that I had the courage to enlist," he cried, bending low once
more. She felt the danger in his voice, half tremulous with some thing
more than loyalty, and drew her hand away from a place of instant
jeopardy. It was fire that she was playing with, she realized with a
start of consciousness. Sweet as the spell had grown to be, she saw that
it must be shattered.
"It is getting frightfully late," she sharply exclaimed. "They'll wonder
where I've gone to. Why, it's actually dark."
"It has been dark for half an hour, your highness," said he, drawing
himself up with sudden rigidness that distressed her. "Are you going to
return to the castle?"
"Yes. They'll have out a searching party pretty soon if I don't appear."
"You have been good to me to-day," he said thoughtfully. "I shall try to
merit the kindness. Let me--"
"Oh, please don't talk in that humble way! It's ridiculous! I'd rather
have you absolutely impertinent, I declare upon my honor I would.
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