Hastily he considered, his heart torn between the
desire not to wound her and dread of what he knew she wanted. To be sure
the maid was beautiful, with the softened beauty of a moonlit night in
summer, her eyes beneath her dusky hair like stars between the branches
of dark trees, her voice that of the forest stream when it sings itself
to sleep. Yet past all doubt he knew that not one among the gorgeous
throng that crowded about Elizabeth would ever see that beauty, no
English ear take heed to hear the music of her voice. Nay, he could
even, as he thought of it, picture the amazement of the great queen,
could hear her scornful laughter, should he present, to help adorn her
court, a savage Indian girl! No, a thousand times no! Such disgrace he
could not suffer. Nor was the maid herself, so he defended himself,
fitted for such a life. Soon would she be as unhappy in England as he
would be to have her there. Besides, she was but a child. Else had she
never so far forgot all womanly dignity as to force herself upon him,
and being but a child she would soon forget. Gently he made to raise her
to her feet.
"Wildenai, little wild rose," he began again, "what thou hast asked of
me thou dost well know thyself is an unheard of thing.
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