“And nothing that is not beautiful?”
“I did not say that, damsel.” Belasez’s smile showed a perfect row of snow-white teeth.
“Am I fair enough to love?” asked Margaret laughingly. She had a good deal of her mother’s easy tolerance of differences, and all her sweet affability to those beneath her.
“Ah, my damsel, true love regards the heart rather than the face, methinks. I cannot see into my damsel’s heart in one minute, but I should think it was not at all difficult to love her.”
“I want every body to love me,” said Margaret. “And I love every body.”
“If my damsel would permit me to counsel her,—love every body by all means: but do not let her want every body to love her.”
“Why not?”
“Because I fear my damsel will meet with disappointment.”
“Oh, I hate to be disappointed. Hast thou brought thine image with thee?”
To Margaret this question sounded most natural. In the first place, she could not conceive the idea of prayer without something visible to pray to: and in the second, she had been taught that all Jews and Saracens were idolaters. She was surprised to see the blood rush to Belasez’s dark cheek, and the fire flash from her eyes.