"Forgive me, Queen," said Witichis, turning away, "my looks shall no more offend thee. I have had much, too much, to grieve me lately. And when I tried to find out for what hidden guilt I could have deserved all my misfortune--" his voice grew very tender.
"Then? Oh, speak!" cried Mataswintha; for she could not doubt the meaning of his unspoken thought.
"I often thought amid all my doubt, that it might be a punishment for the cruel, cruel wrong I did to a noble creature; a woman whom I have sacrificed to my people----"
And in the ardour of his speech he involuntarily looked at his listener.
Mataswintha's cheeks glowed. She was obliged, in order to keep herself upright, to grasp the arm of the chair near her.
"At last," she thought, "at last his heart awakes, and I--how have I acted towards him! And he regrets----"
"A woman," continued Witichis, "who has suffered unspeakably on my account, more than words can express----"
"Cease," whispered Mataswintha so softly that he did not hear it.
"And when I lately saw thee so gentle, so mild, more womanly than ever before--it touched my heart, and tears came into my eyes!"
"O Witichis!" breathed Mataswintha.