“Countesses and ladies,” said the mistress. “There are, in Provence and the South, what I wish there were here in Flanders,—Courts of Love, at which all offenders against the sacred laws of Venus and Cupid are tried by an assembly of their peers, and punished according to their deserts.”
Torfrida turned scarlet.
“I know not why we, countesses and ladies, should have less knowledge of the laws of love than those gayer dames of the South, whose blood runs—to judge by her dark hair—in the veins of yon fair maid.”
There was a silence. Torfrida was the most beautiful woman in the room; more beautiful than even Richilda the terrible: and therefore there were few but were glad to see her—as it seemed—in trouble.
Torfrida’s mother began whimpering, and praying to six or seven saints at once. But nobody marked her,—possibly not even the saints; being preoccupied with Torfrida.
“I hear, fair maid,—for that you are that I will do you the justice to confess,—that you are old enough to be married this four years since.”
Torfrida stood like a stone, frightened out of her wits, plentiful as they were.
“Why are you not married?”
There was, of course, no answer.
“I hear that knights have fought for you; lost their lives for you.”