This was mere coyness, he assured himself, mere maidenly artifice which he must bear with until he had overcome it for all time.
"My lord, I implore you!" she continued.

"Bethink you of where you are--of who you are." "Here will I stay until the crack of doom," he answered, with an odd mixture of humour, ardour and ferocity, "unless you consent to listen to me." "I am ready to listen, my lord," she answered, without veiling a repugnance that he lacked the wit to see.

"But it is not necessary that you should hold my hand, nor fitting that you should kneel." "Not fitting ?" he exclaimed.

"Lady, you do not apprehend me rightly.
Is it not fitting that all of us--be we princes or vassals--shall kneel sometimes ?" "At your prayers, my lord, yes, most fitting." "And is not a man at his prayers when he woos?
What fitter shrine in all the world than his mistress's feet ?" "Release me," she commanded, still struggling.

"Your Highness grows tiresome and ridiculous." "Ridiculous ?" His great, sensual mouth fell open.