‘Who could have told you otherwise?’
‘An enemy of hers, of her family,’ continued Astarte, in a low voice, and speaking as if absorbed in thought; ‘one who admitted to me his long-hoarded vengeance against her house.’
Then turning abruptly, she looked Tancred full in the face, with a glance of almost fierce scrutiny. His clear brow and unfaltering eye, with an expression of sympathy and even kindness on his countenance, met her searching look.
‘No,’ she said; ‘it is impossible that you can be false.’
‘Why should I be false? or what is it that mixes up my name and life with these thoughts and circumstances?’
‘Why should you be false? Ah! there it is,’ said Astarte, in a sweet and mournful voice. ‘What are any of us to you!’ And she wept.
‘It grieves me to see you in sorrow,’ said Tancred, approaching her, and speaking in a tone of kindness.
‘I am more than sorrowful: this unhappy lady——’ and the voice of Astarte was overpowered by her emotion.
‘You will send her back in safety and with honour to her family,’ said Tancred, soothingly. ‘I would fain believe her father has not fallen. My intendant assures me that there are Turkish soldiers here who saw him borne from the field. A little time, and their griefs will vanish. You will have the satisfaction of having acted with generosity, with that good heart which characterises you; and as for the daughter of Besso, all will be forgotten as she gives one hand to her father and the other to her husband.’
‘It is too late,’ said Astarte in an almost sepulchral voice.