Perpetua looked at Diogenes again with bright eyes of scorn.
“King Robert was gentle with beast as with man. But this hunter did not seem cruel. Like you, he was tired; like you, he was thirsty. I showed him where a spring of sweet water bubbled.”
“What was his outer seeming?” Diogenes asked. Somewhat of a warmer color touched the girl’s cheeks.
“My father has told me tales of the ancient heroes. I think he was blessed with all the comeliness and goodliness of the Golden Age.”
Diogenes jeered at her enthusiasm with his voice, with his eyes, with every curve and angle of his misshapen frame—protesting against praise of beauty.
“Did he pilfer your silly heart from your soft body?” he asked. Perpetua answered him mildly, heedless of the sneering speech.
“He spoke me fair. He was grave and courteous. I know he was brave and good.” She moved a little away, with her hands clasped, speaking rather to herself, but indifferent to the presence of the fool. “When God wishes me to mate, God grant that I love such a man.”
The frankness, the simplicity, the purity of this prayer seemed to sting Diogenes to a fierce irritation. Leering and lolling, he advanced upon the girl.
“Did he kiss you upon the mouth?” he whispered, mean insinuation lighting his face with an ignoble joy.