"Yes, she loved you; I know it," resumed Fatkoura, with a faint sigh. "Do you think that the jealous eye of the woman you scorned could fail to read her face I—how its pride died away when she looked at you; how her voice, against her will, would soften when she spoke to you; what happy tremors when you came, what sadness when you went! I watched and noted all; each discovery was like a sword thrust into my heart; rage, hate, and love devoured my soul. No, you never suffered as I did."
"Do not overwhelm me, Fatkoura!" said the Prince. "I did not deserve such love; see how I have rewarded it! You are dying for my sake, and I cannot save you. The horrible grief that rends me at this moment avenges you for much of the suffering that I have caused you."
"I am happy now," said Fatkoura. "I might have died before you came; and I am with you."
"But you shall not die!" cried the Prince. "Am I mad, that I stand here, stunned by horror, instead of bringing you help, or having your wound dressed? You are young; you will recover."
"Why should?" said Fatkoura. "Would you love me then?"
"I would love you then as now, with an infinite affection."
"With a brother's love," Fatkoura whispered, with a bitter smile. "Let me die."
"Alas! that blood which flows so fast, and bears your life with it!" exclaimed the Prince, frantic with grief.
He began to utter frenzied shouts. They were heard. Soldiers and servants rushed in. General Signenari also appeared, still stained with blood from the battle. All stood aside, to let him pass.
"What is the matter, Prince?" he cried.