''Twas a jest.'
'A jest I care not for.'
'Alas, Bice, these many days thou hast been harsh to me! Well, I confess it—I am guilty; 'twas a scurvy jest—a caprice.'
'Your caprices, my lord, are many.'
She turned towards him angrily. 'How is it you have no shame? Why, why these lies? Do I not know you? —read you to the soul? I would not have you think this jealousy; but I will not, hear you, my lord?—I will not be one among your lemans.'
'I swear to thee, Bice, I have loved none save thee. By my soul's eternal weal, I swear it.'
She was silent, surprised less by his words than by the tone in which they were uttered. He was not wholly lying. The more he deceived her the more he felt he loved her, as if passion were inflamed by fear, qualms of conscience, pity, and remorse.
'Pardon, Bice, pardon,' he implored; 'consider my love for thee——'
She submitted herself; and as he embraced her, invisible in the darkness, he remembered serene and innocent eyes, and a perfume of freshness, of violet and musk; the two loves confused themselves in an exquisite sensation.
'Truly to-day thou art something like a lover!' she said with inward pride.