She was Audrey of the garden, and Haward, smiling, drew his rapier and
laid it in her hands. She looked at the golden hilt, and passed her brown
fingers along the gleaming blade. "Stainless," she said, and gave it back
to him.

Taking it, he took also the hand that had proffered it. "I was not
laughing, child," he said. "Go to the ball thou shalt, and with me. What!
Thou art young and fair. Shalt have no pleasure"--

"What pleasure in that?" cried Audrey. "I may not go, sir; nay, I will not
go!"

She freed her hand, and stood with heaving bosom and eyes that very slowly
filled with tears. Haward saw no reason for her tears. It was true that
she was young and fair; true, also, that she had few pleasures. Well, he
would change all that. The dance,--was it not woven by those nymphs of
old, those sprites of open spaces in the deep woods, from whose immemorial
company she must have strayed into this present time? Now at the Palace
the candles were burning for her, for her the music was playing. Her
welcome there amidst the tinsel people? Trust him for that: he was what he
was, and could compass greater things than that would be. Go she should,
because it pleased him to please her, and because it was certainly
necessary for him to oppose pride with pride, and before the eyes of
Evelyn demonstrate his indifference to that lady's choice of Mr. Lee for
the minuet and Mr. Lightfoot for the country dance. This last thought had
far to travel from some unused, deep-down quagmire of the heart, but it
came. For the rest, the image of Audrey decked in silk and lace, turned by
her apparel into a dark Court lady, a damsel in waiting to Queen Titania,
caught his fancy in both hands. He wished to see her thus,--wished it so