“Tell it, tell it!”
“Am I not thy wife?”
“Priests’ business. I speak of love.”
“Why, did I not swear to love thee?”
“Elfrida, thy love’s my heaven; without it—hell. Hear my confession. There’s no moment to lose.”
“Thou strange husband!”
“When I first saw thee in thy father’s house I saw my destiny. Such immortal beauty, child—God, I was just man! Forgive the mad cunning jealousy that would deceive thee even in thyself. ‘I must possess,’ I thought, ‘this immortal thing or die.’ I bid for thy rank, thy fortune, in pretence, the King upholding my suit. His interest turned the scale, and we were wed. Elfrida, wife, dear love—I wronged the King in all; I was no more at first than his deputy for thy hand.”
A little spot of white had come to her cheek; but she smiled on him, not stirring.
“How, Athelwold?”
“I must confess it,” he said. “Edgar had heard speak of this lovely Devon rose; and, toying, only half inclined, with a thought of matrimony, sent me, on some feigned mission, to discover if the lady’s beauty really matched her nobility—in which case——”