When the maiden became somewhat calm, Sir Charleroy found words to question:
“Harrimai cannot find heart to blast his idol’s happiness! He does not mean all he said?”
“Alas, he does. It’s part of the Patriarch’s religion to hate such as thou, as he does. He means more, if possible, than he spoke. Our people unveil the bosom and cover the mouth; thine cover the bosom and unveil the mouth. Ye talk, we burn.”
“Has pure love like ours no sanctity in his sight?”
“Alas, he can not believe any love pure that is between Gentile and Israelite. He was sneering at ours a few evenings ago, when he remarked as we were looking at the stars, ‘Hyperius or Venus of the evening is mistakenly called the star of love. Lucifer of the morning is the true emblem of most young love. It rises in maddening brightness, but fades out of sight very soon.’”
“Grim omen! We took Venus for our betrothal star; they say it is so bright at times that it casts a shadow. I feel its shadow now,” said the knight, meditating.
“Yes, shadows and shadows!” exclaimed Rizpah, with a flood of tears, and she swayed back and forth as she wept. She was driven by tempests of fear that made her ready to flee, and held by anchors of passionate loving that made her ready to brave all fears; therefore the swaying and weeping. At intervals the two communed and debated concerning the one all-engrossing theme, their future course.
“Rizpah,” comfortingly spoke the knight, “when in the greatest peril of our lives, we were drawn, by danger, closer to each other.” There was a glance of entreaty in her eyes as if to say, “Go save thy life and let the Jewish maiden die alone;” but the knight drew her to his bosom, and she responded by an embrace of passionate clinging.
“I go from Rizpah only at her command or death’s,” said the knight solemnly.