"I am beyond reason. What am I saying? All my quarrels with you are kind ones, Jane. Oh, 'tis ten thousand pities you will not love me!"
"It is nowise possible, Stephen."
He flung himself into a chair, laid his arms upon the table, and buried his face in them. "Go away, then," he sobbed; "I wish to see your face no more. For your sake, I will hate all women forever."
There was no use in prolonging a conversation so hopeless. She went away, and in the hall met her brother Cymlin. He looked at her angrily. "You have been behaving badly to Stephen; I see that much. What for did God make women? They are His wrath, I think. You and your friend are both as wicked and cruel and beautiful as tigers; and you have no more heart or conscience than cats have."
"If you are speaking of Lady Matilda, it is a shame. She told me to-day she thought you as handsome a man in face and figure as was in England. She praised your courage and self-respect, and said if you had kissed her last night she would have forgiven you."
As Jane spoke, wonder and delight chased each other across Cymlin's face. "What else did she say?" he eagerly asked.
"Indeed, I have told you too much."
"Tell me all, Jane, I must know."
"Why should you care for her words? She is cruel as a tiger, and has no more heart or conscience than a cat."
"I did not fully mean such things of Matilda—nor of you, in the main. You are sure she said I was handsome?"