Now she coloured to her hair, and a kind of madness took her.
“Am I to be preached to by you?” she asked.
“I preach to myself, Augusta, who need it greatly, not to you, who mayhap do not need it.”
“Hating me as you do, why should you need it? You are the worst of hypocrites, who would veil your hate under a priest’s robe.”
“Have you no pity, Irene? When did I say that I hated you? Moreover, if I had hated you, should I——” and I ceased.
“I do not know what you would or would not have done,” she answered coldly. “I think that Constantine is right, and that you must be what is called a saint; and, if so, saints are best in heaven, especially when they know too much on earth. Give me that sword of yours.”
I drew the sword, saluted with it, and gave it to her.
“It is a heavy weapon,” she said. “Whence came it?”
“From the same grave as the necklace, Augusta.”
“Ah! the necklace that your dream-woman wore. Well, go to seek her in the land of dreams,” and she lifted the sword.