“As you are a woman who has wept in secret, and by the hurt which brought your tears,” she said, “only tell me if he is well and happy. Surely that cannot touch your honor.”
“I have already said he is well. He has the vigor of a young man. As for happiness—he says very little, and that not of himself. At least he is not openly unhappy.”
“Tell me,” she urged, “if you could imagine that in his own land he is well loved, that there is one there who lives in him, dreams of him, counts the hours; could you say that he found the time of his hostage heavy because of her?”
“He is thoughtful at times, and walks by himself. Otherwise I could not judge. I have not loved myself.”
For answer she let her eyes wander pointedly over my disfigured face and fallen hair.
“Tell me again,” she said after an interval. “This girl who is the Ward, is she very beautiful?”
“Very;” but not so beautiful as you, I thought, for there was in the vivid red of her fine lips, in the purple of her eyes and the delicate tragic arch of her brows, in the long throat and bosom, all that fire and motion of passion which the Ward’s face hinted at elusively. I was casting about for a way of saying this to her not too boldly when I was advised by the tapping of her foot on the needles that she would not be turned from her inquiry.
“And Ravenutzi, is he interested in her? Is he much about her? Does she care for him?”
“She is the Ward,” I said, “she may not think of men; and besides, she is only a girl, her thought would hardly turn to a white head.”
“True, true”—she pinched her lip with thumb and forefinger—“I had forgotten; as you say, he is a very old man. No doubt he might be judged old enough to have speech with her.”