And then from the woman at his feet:
“Think of me, Prassade.”
“Think of what I think on day and night,” cried Prassade, “and let me go.”
“Prassade,” said the young chief, greatly troubled, “in that which we propose to do, when this business is settled, I shall have great need, as in the past I have had great benefit, from your interest and advice....”
“No, no!...” The man’s voice was a desperate gasp merely. “Never shall I give counsel who could not advise my own child against dishonor”—holding his wife from him still, though the poor creature worked toward him on her knees. “Never shall I beget children again who have been betrayed by my own child.... Ah ... let me go ... let me go ... and by service ... by forgetting....” There was something almost of madness in his wounded desperation. I suppose his wife must have seen that. She left off entreaty and took his hand, fondling it quietly, turning as she was, upon her knees, toward Persilope and the elders, quite broken and submissive.
“It is best you let him go,” she said, “he will be happier so.”
Prassade caught at this, his lip was wet with eagerness.
“Ay, ay, how can I know happiness again? She knows I cannot.”
“Are you sure,” said Persilope to the wife, “that you are prepared for ... that you understand?”
“I understand,” she answered back, neither of them looking at the man in question. “If it means peace for him, I am....” She threw out her hands to show how obedient she was to destiny.