“Ah! partial one,” returned the princess, “hadst thou lived in Beziers, St. Dominick would have had thy head for thy heresy. But seriously, my Eva, thy praises humble me, for methinks had my life really exhibited those graces for which thy partial fondness gives me credit, I might ere this have taught thy restless spirit the composure which trust in God always gives.”
Alarmed by the grave tone of her mistress, and anxious to conceal the emotions that welled up in her heart, Eva replied, with assumed gaiety, “Nay, what canst thou expect from a sea-sprite? Surely I must rise and fall like my native element.”
“Ah! darling, this is that which hath so often forced home upon me the thought I would not willingly apply to thee, ‘Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel.’ And this it is makes me solicitous to gain thy candid ear while I unfold my husband’s plans.” Tears rolled over the fair girl’s cheeks, but she remained perfectly silent. “Sir Warrenne Bassingbourn, whose noble heart thou knowest well, hath demanded thee of Edward, being pleased to say that thy fair hand would be sufficient guerdon for his gallant conduct in the wars. My royal father will give thee fitting dowry, and I would see my sweet friend well bestowed with some worthy protector before I embark upon that voyage from which I may never return.”
“Thou embark for Palestine!” exclaimed Eva, forgetting her own brilliant prospects in the contemplation of her lady’s purpose. “Bethink thee, my most honored mistress, of all the perils that beset thy course.”
“I have counted them over, one by one,” replied the princess, calmly.
“Thou hast thought of the dangers of the sea, perhaps, but rememberest thou the dreadful pestilence?—the horrors that Queen Margaret told?—how the leeches cut away the gums and cheeks of the sufferers, that they might swallow a drop of water to ease their torments?”
“I remember all—I have considered well,” returned the princess. “And this also do I know, that nothing ought to part those whom God hath joined; and the way to heaven is as near, if not nearer, from Syria as from England, or my native Spain.”
“Then I go with thee,” said Eva, throwing herself at the feet of Eleanora, and pressing her lips upon her hand, “for if God hath not joined me to thee, he hath left me alone in the world. Thou hast been to me more than Naomi, and I shall not fail to thee in the duty of Ruth. Where thou goest I will go, where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. The poor, lone Eva, whose mother lieth in the deep, deep sea, and whose father is perchance a wanderer or an outlaw, shall no more strive to veil the sadness of her orphan heart by the false smiles and assumed gaiety that grieve her truest, only friend. Henceforth I will learn the lesson thou hast, with such gentle patience and sweet example, ever strove to teach me.”
Eleanora mingled her tears with those of the impassioned maiden, and, anxious to end the painful scene, said, “Thou shalt go with me, love, to danger, and perhaps to death, since such is thine election; but what answer shall Edward return to Sir Warrenne Bassingbourn?”
“Let my lord assure Sir Warrenne,” said she, rising proudly, “that Eva de la Mer is not insensible of the honor he intends, but that she will never add the shamrock to a knight’s escutcheon, till she knows by what title she claims the emblem.”