He drew his rapier from its sheath, and presented the hilt to me. I took it with a bow, and handed it to Sparrow.

The King’s ward had risen, and now leant against the bank of sand, her long dark hair, half braided, drawn over either shoulder, her face marble white between the waves of darkness.

“I do not know that I shall ever come back,” I said, stopping before her. “May I kiss your hand before I go?”

Her lips moved, but she did not speak. I knelt and kissed her clasped hands. They were cold to my lips. “Where are you going?” she whispered. “Into what danger are you going? I — I — take me with you!”

I rose, with a laugh at my own folly that could have rested brow and lips on those hands, and let the world wag.