He then desired her to rise and go about the good work he had set her.
She rose to her knees, and removing her mask, cast an eloquent look upon him, then lowered her eyes meekly.
“I will obey you as I would an angel. How happy I am, yet unhappy; for oh, my heart tells me I shall never look on you again. I will not go till I have dried your feet.”
“It needs not. I have excused thee this bootless penance.”
“'Tis no penance to me. Ah! you do not forgive me, if you will not let me dry your poor feet.”
“So be it then,” said Clement resignedly; and thought to himself, “Levius quid foemina.”
But these weak creatures, that gravitate towards the small, as heavenly bodies towards the great, have yet their own flashes of angelic intelligence.
When the princess had dried the friar's feet, she looked at him with tears in her beautiful eyes, and murmured with singular tenderness and goodness—
“I will have masses said for her soul. May I?” she added timidly.
This brought a faint blush into the monk's cheek, and moistened his cold blue eye. It came so suddenly from one he was just rating so low.