“I suppose so. See what it is for an erring man to have a saint for a brother and a rival! Nay, be not angry with me, Rosamund, who cannot tread the path of saints.”
“That I believe, but at least, Wulf, there is no need to mock those who can.”
“I mock him not. I love him as well as—you do.” And he watched her face.
It never changed, for in Rosamund’s heart were hid the secret strength and silence of the East, which can throw a mask impenetrable over face and features.
“I am glad that you love him, Wulf. See to it that you never forget your love and duty.”
“I will; yes—even if you reject me for him.”
“Those are honest words, such as I looked to hear you speak,” she replied in a gentle voice. “And now, dear Wulf, farewell, for I am weary—”
“To-morrow—” he broke in.
“Ay,” she answered in a heavy voice. “To-morrow I must speak, and—you must listen.”
The sun had run his course again, and once more it was near four o’clock in the afternoon. The brethren stood by the great fire in the hall looking at each other doubtfully—as, indeed, they had looked through all the long hours of the night, during which neither of them had closed an eye.