her long lashes upon her wild-rose cheeks.

With a smile the Governor put out an arm and drew her down upon a stool beside him, then rose and bowed low to the King’s ward. “You are not yet well enough to leave your cabin, as our worthy physician general will assure you, lady,” he said courteously, but firmly. “Permit me to lead you back to it.”

Still smiling he made as if to advance, when she stayed him with a gesture of her raised hand, at once so majestic and so pleading that it was as though a strain of music had passed through the stillness of the cabin.

“Sir Francis Wyatt, as you are a gentleman, let me speak,” she said. It was the voice of that first night at Weyanoke, all pathos, all sweetness, all entreating.