“Sir Charleroy was my friend; and thou art his daughter? Thou wouldst not deceive me, I know. Tell me in a few words,” he said, meanwhile furtively glancing about, “Who am I?”
Miriamne again humored him, and pressing her lips nigh his ear, in a whisper replied: “Sir Charleroy, Teutonic knight, my father.”
The old man held her off a little way, gazed at her a moment, doubtfully, then said: “Thou art large for a baby! Miriamne is a little thing.” Then he continued: “But thy eyes, they are Miriamne’s; and so honest! I believe them! Then thou art Miriamne and I Sir Charleroy?”
“Truly.” And again she kissed her father.
“But thou dost not want me—a wreck, a pauper!”
“I do, and the boys do; all Bozrah wants you, needs you.”
“Not thy mother! Oh, no; I murdered her long ago!”
“Not so, dear father.”
“I did, indeed. See,” and he pointed to the painting, “I’ve killed her again, to-day.”
“That’s but a miserable painting, and I hate it as much as you do; but it’s harmless, henceforth.”