‘Here is the youth, my daughter. It was your wish, you know; and I always believe that you know best—’
Another smile put an end to this speech, and the old man retreated humbly toward another door, with a somewhat anxious visage, and then lingering and looking back, his hand upon the latch—
‘If you require any one, you know, you have only to call—we shall be all in the library.’
Another smile; and the old man disappeared, leaving the two alone.
Philammon stood trembling, choking, his eyes fixed on the floor. Where were all the fine things he had conned over for the occasion? He dared not look up at that face, lest it should drive them out of his head. And yet the more lie kept his eyes turned from the face, the more lie was conscious of it, conscious that it was watching him; and the more all the fine words were, by that very knowledge, driven out of his head.... When would she speak? Perhaps she wished him to speak first. It was her duty to begin, for she had sent for him.... But still she kept silence, and sat scanning him intently from head to foot, herself as motionless as a statue; her hands folded together before her, over the manuscript which lay upon her knee. If there was a blush on her cheek at her own daring, his eyes swam too much to notice it.
When would the intolerable suspense end? She was, perhaps, as unwilling to speak as he. But some one must strike the first blow: and, as often happens, the weaker party, impelled by sheer fear, struck it, and broke the silence in a tone half indignant, half apologetic—
‘You sent for me hither!’
‘I did. It seemed to me, as I watched you during my lecture, both before and after you were rude enough to interrupt me, that your offence was one of mere youthful ignorance. It seemed to me that your countenance bespoke a nobler nature than that which the gods are usually pleased to bestow upon monks. That I may now ascertain whether or not my surmises were correct, I ask you for what purpose are you come hither?’
Philammon hailed the question as a godsend.—Now for his message! And yet he faltered as he answered, with a desperate effort,—‘To rebuke you for your sins.’
‘My sins! What sins?’ she asked, as she looked up with a stately, slow surprise in those large gray eyes, before which his own glance sank abashed, he knew not why. What sins?—He knew not. Did she look like a Messalina? But was she not a heathen and a sorceress?—And yet he blushed, and stammered, and hung down his head, as, shrinking at the sound of his own words, he replied—