This curious conversation had taken so long, and had been interrupted by so many pauses, that Bruno appeared before it had progressed further. He glanced at the pair with some amusement in his eyes, not unmixed with sadness, for he had a decided foreboding that he was about to lose his Beatrice. But no more was said that night.
The next morning, Sir John de Averenches made the formal appeal which Bruno was fully expecting.
“I am not good at words, Father,” he said, with honest manliness; “and I know the maiden is fair beyond many. You may easily look higher for her; but you will not easily find one that loves her better.”
“Truly, my son, that is mine own belief,” said Bruno. “But hast thou fully understood that she is of Jewish descent, which many Christian knights would count a blot on their escocheons?”
“Being a Christian, that makes no difference to me.”
“Well! She shall decide for herself; but I fancy I know what she will say. It will be hard to part with her.”
“Why should you, Father? Will she not still want a confessor?—and could she have a better than you?”
“Thank you, Father!” said Beatrice demurely, when Bruno told her that his consent was given, contingent upon hers. “Then I will begin my wedding-dress.”
In this extremely cool manner the fair maiden intimated her intention of becoming a matron. But Bruno, who knew every change of her features and colour, was well aware that she felt a great deal more than she said. The mask was soon dropped.
The wedding-dress was a marvel of her own lovely embroidery. It was worn about the beginning of winter, and once more Bruno resigned his parish duties, and became, as his son-in-law had wisely suggested, a family confessor.