“I am not jealous,” she said; “you can be a better lover than I saw then?”
“I do not love her,” he said; “though I think she is a sweet, beautiful, gracious, noble woman.”
“But I know how she loved you,” said My Lady, “for she confessed, and that is why I entreated her to be brought.”
I could see that she was in a way jealous, for every look as it were, every little gesture while she was questioning him, had been in the nature of a caress.
“I think it was the purest kind of hero-worship, though she besought me to receive her love—that is to say if I am a hero, and I am sure I doubt it now.”
Oblivious of my very existence, My Lady flung her arms round him, and wooed him with those lovely lips, crying “My king of heroes!”
Then she murmured again—“Poor little Rusidda! what a brave, true woman, and the best I think in Sicily!” Then she added aloud, “You are not afraid of death?”
He looked at her inquiringly.
“I am not afraid of my own death,” he said, and truly.
“You have seen it in a hundred forms; you have seen your most faithful friends and servants—a handful at a time, perhaps...?”