“The Golden Age is over long ago,” he said, gloomily, “and we have come to the end of time.”
Perpetua saw that her father was agitated, and wondered why the passing of Diogenes should move him so much. She yearned to tell him her sweet secret of the other comer, the beautiful hunter with the bright eyes and the bright hair, yet when she strove to speak words seemed to be denied her. In all the years of her young life, in all the years of love for her father, and of a friendship, a comradeship wellnigh more wonderful than love, there had been no secret shut in her heart from him. Now there was, and it seemed as if she could not set it free. While she hesitated, Theron turned to her again, and asked, abruptly, “Was this the only intruder to-day?”
Perpetua felt her cheeks burn as she answered, “Ay,” but Theron did not notice her confusion, for he was again gazing down upon the city, and, though he questioned anew, his voice was listless.
“I thought you said strangers?”
“There has been no one else to-day,” Perpetua answered. She purposely set some stress on the last word, that her father might, if he chose, make further question, but he seemed to be absorbed in heavy thoughts. He turned from his view of the city and came to her with a grave face.
“There will be others,” he said. “The new King—”
“Robert the Bad?” Perpetua interrupted.
Theron stared at her. “Where did you learn that?”
“The withered fool called the King so.”
“The fool yelped wisdom,” Theron said, bitterly.