“My father is a good and honest man, but were I the child of a robber, were I a fosterling of a wolf of the woods, I am a woman—the woman you say you love.”
Robert waved her words away disdainfully, peevishly.
“I cannot marry you.”
Perpetua’s cheeks paled and her lips quivered a little, and her eyes were moist beneath their lowered lids, but she answered him as firmly as before and more sadly.
“Good-bye, then. I am not sorry you came, for I cherish sweet thoughts of you, but I shall be glad to see you go.”
She turned as if to glide into the woods, but Robert stayed her, calling to her in a voice of loud command.
“I will not lose you!” he cried. “If I cannot win you as the simple hunter, I will command you as the King. I am Robert of Sicily.”
As he spoke he slipped the green mantle from his arms and shoulders, flung it from him, and stood before her in the royal garments of the King. Perpetua gazed in astonishment at the rich habit, at splendor such as she had never seen.
“You are the King?” she whispered.