He drew himself up proudly, and his air of dignity contrasted so grimly with his wry figure that Perpetua, who had found no tears for her own grief, was ready to weep for him. So she answered him according to his folly, hoping to soothe him.
“Yes, yes, I remember,” she murmured, touched to the heart by the trouble in his wild eyes. “But you seem sick and faint. Shall I bring you some water?”
She made as if to leave him, to seek for water, but he stayed her with a gesture, speaking rapidly, in a low voice that seemed charged with fear.
“There is a strange conspiracy against me”—he paused, as if trying to command his fevered thoughts, and pressed his hands to his forehead—“or else I have been dreaming a strange dream.” He looked around him drearily, and then again fixed his questioning gaze upon her. “But you—you know me?”
“Yes, yes, I know you,” Perpetua answered him, gently; but to herself she said, “Poor soul! poor soul!” and she wondered what she could do to help the afflicted thing. If her father had returned he would know what to do—or one of the holy brothers of the Church. Even while she reflected two forms rose against the sky, coming from the pathway, giant figures with skins like burnished copper, clad with a barbaric splendor, with pelts of leopards over their shoulders, and having great rings of gold upon their arms and in their ears.
“This is the place,” said one; and, “Knock at the door,” ordered the other. Perpetua stepped out of the shadow of the trees towards them. Robert, following her action with his eyes, saw the men and knew them, amazed, for his Moorish slaves Zal and Rustum. He asked himself why they were there, and could not answer the question; yet some memory seemed to be trying to assert itself in his troubled brain, and he watched what followed vaguely as one shackled by sleep.
“What do you seek?” Perpetua asked of the new-comers.
The one who had spoken last questioned her.
“Are you the daughter of Theron the executioner?”
“I am she,” Perpetua answered.