For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of her cheek; then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she stammered in her wrath:—
“And dost thou—dost thou dare, say this to my face—to me, who stooped to ask when I had but to command? I, with my unmatched beauty; I, who hold the hearts of men in thrall to the lifting of my eyes; I, to whom men kneel as to their God! Art thou mad, mad, that thou canst set aside such a behest as mine? ’Tis small wonder men say thy doublet hides a monkish dress; of a truth the tale they brought savoured of little else. Hear me, thou prating, milk-faced Modesty, I choose that thou shalt limn this face of mine: say me nay, and I will teach thee a lesson hard of forgetting; for I will silence thy preaching for aye, and lend my serving-men to whip thee through the streets. Men, said I? Nay, thou art too much a cur to make fit sport for men: rather my maids shall wield the rod and lace thy shoulders.”
She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where the peacocks on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited, dumb as the dog to which she had likened him, for he had no word.
There was silence a while.
Then the Princess spoke, and her voice cut Hilarius like the sting of a lash:—
“Bring me yon flowers.”
He obeyed.
“Set them at my feet.”
He bent his knee and did so, wondering.
A moment, and she trod them under; their dying fragrance filled the air, as their living breath had flooded the senses of the blind-eyed lad at the Monastery gate.