Lycabetta nodded her head.
“He is the all-conquering lover, for he never yields an inch of his heart. If a goddess condescended from Olympus, he would woo her with hot blood and cold brain. His eyes are torches of desire, but there never is a tender light in them. If a woman died in his arms, he would leave her without a sigh. And yet he can speak the speech of love more eloquently than an angel. You will laugh when I tell you that I would give much to believe that he loved me.”
“He is the King,” Glycerium said, simply.
“If he were a shepherd on a hill-side, I should think the same thoughts. But he is alike with all women. I do not believe the woman is born of woman who could make gentle his cruelty. He is as pitiless as the plague, that never spares the fairest.”
Glycerium shivered.
“Do not speak of the plague, dear lady. They say some have died of it in Syracuse.”
“Or call it by some pretty name to placate it,” Euphrosyne suggested. “Say that the blessing is abroad.”
Glycerium shivered again.
“Oh, how I wish we had never left Naples!”
Lycabetta’s face had grown pale and she gasped her words.