"Bora seems on excellent terms with the princess," said Paul.
"Naturally, seeing that he is to marry her."
"What?"
Paul's intonation was so sharp that Trevisa turned to survey him.
"Why, Paul, how white you're grown!"
"Merely a pang from an old wound. But your princess; she can't entertain any real love for that fellow."
"Love was never fashionable at courts," smiled Trevisa. His words jarred upon Paul. If Barbara had become such that she could marry without any love on her side, then her nature must have sadly changed from what it was in the old sweet days at Castel Nuovo.
"It is a mariage de convenance," continued Trevisa, "tending to secure her position on the throne, and—but see, she is about to set off again."
The princess, having finished her conversation, drew off her right glove and extended her fair jewelled hand to the duke with a smile and graciousness of manner that roused all the jealousy in Paul's nature.
"She has forgotten me," he murmured bitterly. "Well, of course, she thinks me dead; but even if she knew otherwise, it is not likely that she will pay much regard to me now. And yet what were her words to me on the day that we were parted? 'If I were an empress, Paul, I would be your wife.' Humph! we shall see."