All the fierce and dangerous jealousy of man's most human passion— when man loves and hates in a breath—trembled in the Cymrian's voice, and fired his troubled eye; for Aldyth's pale cheek blushed like the rose, but she folded her arms haughtily on her breast, and made no reply.
"No," said Gryffyth, grinding teeth, white [169] and strong as those of a young hound. "No, Harold in vain sent me the casket; the jewel was gone. In vain thy form returned to my side; thy heart was away with thy captor: and not to save my life (were I so base as to seek it), but to see once more the face of him to whom this cold hand, in whose veins no pulse answers my own, had been given, if thy House had consulted its daughter, wouldst thou have me crouch like a lashed dog at the feet of my foe! Oh Shame! shame! shame! Oh worst perfidy of all! Oh sharp—sharper than Saxon sword or serpent's tooth, is—is—"
Tears gushed to those fierce eyes, and the proud King dared not trust to his voice.
Aldyth rose coldly. "Slay me if thou wilt—not insult me. I have said, 'Let us die!'"
With these words, and vouchsafing no look on her lord, she moved away towards the largest tower or cell, in which the single and rude chamber it contained had been set apart for her.
Gryffyth's eye followed her, softening gradually as her form receded, till lost to his sight. And then that peculiar household love, which in uncultivated breasts often survives trust and esteem, rushed back on his rough heart, and weakened it, as woman only can weaken the strong to whom Death is a thought of scorn.
He signed to his bard, who, during the conference between wife and lord, had retired to a distance, and said, with a writhing attempt to smile:
"Was there truth, thinkest thou, in the legend, that Guenever was false to King Arthur?"
"No," answered the bard, divining his lord's thought, for Guenever survived not the King, and they were buried side by side in the Vale of Avallon."
"Thou art wise in the lore of the heart, and love hath been thy study from youth to grey hairs. Is it love, is it hate, that prefers death for the loved one, to the thought of her life as another's?" A look of the tenderest compassion passed over the bard's wan face, but vanished in reverence, as he bowed his head and answered: