FullReads

“I know,” she answered. “Give me water, Etienne.” She washed and bound the Prince’s head with a vinegar-soaked napkin. Ellinor sat upon the floor, the big man’s head upon her knee. “He will not die of this, for he is of strong person. Look you, Messire de Gatinais, you and I are not. We are so fashioned that we can enjoy only the pleasant things of life. But this man can enjoy–enjoy, mark you–the commission of any act, however distasteful, if he think it to be his duty. There is the difference. I cannot fathom him. But it is now necessary that I become all which he loves–since he loves it–and that I be in thought and deed all which he desires. For I have heard the Tenson through.”

“You love him!” said de Gatinais.

She glanced upward with a pitiable smile. “Nay, it is you that I love, my Etienne. You cannot understand–can you?–how at this very moment every fibre of me–heart, soul, and body–may be longing just to comfort you and to give you all which you desire, my Etienne, and to make you happy, my handsome Etienne, at however dear a cost. No; you will never understand that. And since you may not understand, I merely bid you go and leave me with my husband.”

And then there fell between these two an infinite silence.

“Listen,” de Gatinais said; “grant me some little credit for what I do. You are alone; the man is powerless. My fellows are within call. A word secures the Prince’s death; a word gets me you and Sicily. And I do not speak that word, for you are my lady as well as his.”

But there was no mercy in the girl, no more for him than for herself. The big head lay upon her breast what time she caressed the gross hair of it ever so lightly. “These are tinsel oaths,” she crooned, as rapt with incurious content; “these are but the protestations of a jongleur. A word get you my body? A word get you, in effect, all which you are capable of desiring? Then why do you not speak that word?”

De Gatinais raised clenched hands. “I am shamed,” he said; and more lately, “It is just.”

He left the room and presently rode away with his men. I say that he had done a knightly deed, but she thought little of it, never raised her head as the troop clattered from Mauleon, with a lessening beat which lapsed now into the blunders of an aging fly who doddered about the pane yonder.

She sat thus for a long period, her meditations adrift in the future; and that which she foreread left her nor all sorry nor profoundly glad, for living seemed by this, though scarcely the merry and colorful business which she had esteemed it, yet immeasurably the more worth while.