It shot through my mind then that Barbara would neither have struggled nor laughed.

But Cydaria laughed.
Presently I let her go, and kneeling on my knee kissed her hand very humbly, as though she had been what Barbara was.

If she were not--and I knew not what she was--yet should my love exalt her and make a throne whereon she might sit a Queen.

My new posture brought a sudden gravity to her face, and she bent over me with a smile that seemed now tender and almost sorrowful.
"Poor Simon, poor Simon," she whispered.

"Kiss my hand now; kiss it as though I were fit for worship.