“A melted glowing mass of a ruby color,” said Eleanora, with great interest.
Taking a small rod in his hand he lifted the adhering particles, and drew them into thin, fine hair, like threads of a shining whiteness, which he presented to Agnes, saying, with a smile, “I will bestow these frail crystals upon thee, fair one; perchance thou mayst preserve them in memory of the mad philosopher.”
Every day the Queen of England became more interested in the society of her lovely ward, whose sprightliness was tempered by a sweetness, and a delicate discrimination, that never gave offence. It was gratifying to observe, in a fancy cultivated by the poetic legends of the South, and stored with the splendid fictions of Arabian romance, an ardent love of truth, and a strict adherence to its dictates; and Eleanora saw with pleasure that her most playful and entertaining sallies, though sometimes pointed at the peculiarities of those around her, never betrayed ill-humor, nor degenerated into sarcasm. Her beauty and gayety forcibly recalled the image of Eva; but the reliance which the obedient Jewess inspired, was in strong contrast to the anxiety ever awakened by the lovely, but volatile daughter of Clare.
The charming Agnes not only amused the queen with her vivacity, but afforded her a sense of repose, by her amiable observance of every admonition, and her evident desire to regard the wishes no less than the positive commands of her royal benefactress, and especially did she win the love of the mother by her graceful attentions to the infant Princess Beatrice.
While Agnes was actuated by the most dutiful affection to her father, she seemed by a happy trustfulness to escape participation in that gloom and care which daily deepened upon the clouded brow of the Sicilian.
Desirous to relieve what she deemed his apprehensions for the future welfare of his daughter, the queen took occasion, upon one of his visits, to assure him of her increasing attachment to her lovely charge.
“Thy generous interest in the despised exile softens my bitter fate,” said he, “but could the unhappy Procida enlist the influence of England’s gracious sovereign in the great project that preys upon his being, he would feel that he had not lived in vain.”
“My lord the king is ever ready to assist the unfortunate,” said Eleanora, encouragingly, “and is free from those prejudices which embarrass weaker minds. If thou deemest it proper to reveal thy secret, his queen will herself endeavor to redress thy wrongs.”
“Procida seeks not the redress of a personal affront, nor restoration to his island home; my project is,” said the Sicilian, drawing near the queen, and speaking in a low tone of terrible emphasis, “revenge!—death to the infamous Charles d’Anjou!”
The startled Eleanora essayed no reply, but gazed in mute terror at the dark and malignant face of the conspirator.