The archbishop turned to the kingly image:
“It was an ill chance, sire, that found you a fool for a champion, but there’s no help now. By the laws of Sicily the field is fought and won.”
Robert, lying conquered on the ground, gasped out one word:
“Perpetua!”
Hieronymus beckoned to Perpetua, who came and knelt by the side of the seeming fool. Her senses were in a whirl, and, hardly conscious, she stooped and listened to the words which Robert whispered eagerly into her ear:
“You must not misread me; you must know why I have done what I have done. My arm was too weak to wield a weapon in your defence, but my vile body might well be flung away to rescue yours. Hildebrand is dead. Hieronymus found me a suit of armor. I came as the challenger, resolved to fall and die.”
“I knew this,” confirmed Hieronymus; “but I was pledged to keep his secret.”
Perpetua looked into Robert’s eyes tenderly. What could be said of devotion such as his?
“You must not die,” she whispered.