“Poor child!” she said. She was full of womanly sympathy: no woman I ever knew could rise to such a glory of sympathy and imagination and generosity at such a moment. She led her away. It was My Lady who wept over the death of the knightly Ruggiero and the hopelessness of Rusidda’s passion.
We watched them pass down the steps, and out of sight among the ilexes, and the Admiral, very sorrowful, pass by the steps from the far end of the terrace; and then I, too, crept from the belvedere, in which I had been an imprisoned spectator, and left Will with his head buried in his arms.
The Admiral went to the body of the Prince, who was, by this, laid out reverently on a bier in the small dark hall at the top of the steps, where he had so valiantly met his death for his guest. There he lay, as it were, still on guard, where all who entered the palace must pass him. His sword was at his side, and the old priest of S. Giovanni of the Lepers, the priest who had brought him up from his childhood, and so often repeated to him the prophecy of the Favara, was praying over him. The Admiral made a reverence to him as he entered, and taking the dead man’s right hand, held it as if he were taking a vow, with tears splashing down on it. This the priest told us; and as we passed up we saw for ourselves how the hero knelt by the dead hero’s body, praying—as all who knew the Admiral would know—for the dead, though it is not permitted of our Church. And the attendants told Will how the aged servant of the Lord laid his hands and his blessing on the heads of both.
The Admiral was still kneeling when I passed—kneeling as I saw him kneel on the day of Trafalgar, when the Victory was sailing so grandly into action.
My Lady, too, saw him from the door, and reverence forbade her entering the chamber. And presently came to her Will, inquiring for Donna Rusidda. She led him to the porphyry chamber, where, dry-eyed and wild-eyed, Donna Rusidda stood gazing out seawards, and there left him.
“Rusidda! Rusidda!” called Will, waiting to see if she would have him advance.
She came to him.
“You must marry me now, dear one.”
She turned her clear gaze on him. His face was burning.
Then she knew that it could not be her loneliness, her orphaned state, that made him press his suit at such a time, and said, “How could any man wish to marry me?”