"No matter if he's just a humble peasant," the man went on, "if he's given all that he has to give, he has a right to make those requests. And although the queen laughs in scorn, at least she can't resent them—or order him beheaded."
"I don't think she could be scornful—if the peasant has given—everything he has."
"I don't think it would be quite fair either—although, of course, he might ask for things that she couldn't grant. And that, perhaps, will be the way it is with me."
She looked up, a strange mist and glory in her eyes. "What do you mean, Hugh?"
He heard the crackle of the fire, the stir of the wind behind her, the soft complaint of the sheep, stirring in their sleep, but most of all he discerned the music, the unutterable loveliness in her tones. "I mean that when this fight is won—I'm going to put my petitions to the queen."
