“When we may,” she said. “I am the only daughter of my house, and my father and mother are aged.”
“I know well what that means,” he replied. “We also are only children of our house. Dost thou not know, lady, that always, with all my power, at any cost to myself, I would fain help thee to what thou deemest best?”
“You have always helped us,” she said, “always understood—at Orleans, at Troyes—always.”
“If you decide on leaving Rome,” he said, after a pause, in a low, deep voice, “I would try and help you at any cost.”
Did she understand, he wondered, at what a cost it might be to himself? Did either of them understand what a pang of conflict it might cost to her? Her eyelids fell before his passionate gaze, the dark lashes shaded her cheek. But at that moment he felt he would not, need not question her further. A trembling hope came into his heart that he had won his answer; and with the hope came the response to his mother’s words about Leo’s prayer, and he said softly—
“Help us to think and to do the things that are rightful.”
Then the frank, grey eyes were raised once more to his with an expression of rejoicing and entire trust.
“What is rightful?” she said. “That must always mean what He Who loves us best sees is best for us, must it not?”
And for the first time he seemed to see into the clear depths of her soul, and to be sure that she was no longer apart from him to be questioned, but close beside him, sharing his very soul, and questioning herself. He felt as if the pleading for him with her was in higher hands, and quite safe there. And suddenly he felt constrained to open the depths of his own heart and mind to her.