It was impossible not to speculate further regarding the real self of the woman as distinct from the self which reflected the world of the twelfth century. What that world expected of her we know, and so we know a very large part of the reality, for the emotions of most of us are the product of this eternal outside suggestion.
But there is sometimes—perhaps always—deep down in the being, a hidden spot that acknowledges no such dictation; and here would spring up yearnings and criticisms, revolts and despairs, while the wife of the feudal seigneur punctually and uncomplainingly fulfilled the demands of her position.
Did she ever, even for a moment, see the grim reality of that position, or was it hidden from her eyes by tradition, habit, by the little palliatives and privileges which her power as a woman and a beautiful woman, would win for her at this auspicious moment of new-born homage for her sex?
It is not at all unlikely that some inkling of the strange situation would drift across the consciousness now and again, for it is just at the moment when a burden grows a little less overwhelming that the bearer begins to cry out against its oppression. Before then he has no breath with which to cry!
Personal trouble and the sting of unhappy love might have stirred momentary feelings that would link our heroine of the golden hair with her sisters of future generations. It is unthinkable that such feelings were never in the hearts of women, in some form or other, in the days of their darkest captivity.
Perhaps, as she watched the troubadour riding forth into the world, she rebelled against her task of eternal waiting and submitting; against the all-extensive claims made upon her as part and parcel of her husband's estate and dignity: for her position in this respect was made clear enough when he threateningly commended to her vigilance the duty of safeguarding his name and the "honour" of his house on pain of punishment such as only a mediæval seigneur could devise.
Called to account for every act and word, admonished like a child—and often in the tone used to the hounds after a bad day's sport—not the most secret emotion of her heart legitimately her own—body and soul the property of her lord and his all-important family: her life was one long reminder of the humiliating facts. Was she tired of being warder of her own prison? Even the hounds were not that! Was she sick of this strange stewardship of herself as the property of another? Must she remain for ever shut away from ambitions, passions, hopes? Was she never to know what love and loyalty as between free human souls meant? Was she never—fool, fool that she was——?
Some interruption occurred here, and Alazais ceased to soliloquise.
Barbara said that there was really no need to address as "fool, fool" the entirely sensible-looking nun who emerged from the church of St. Vincent, with her Mass-book in her hand.
The apparition of a creature of flesh and blood in this strange place was almost startling, and it brought back considerations of time and place and other delusive modes of human thought. There was dinner to be considered—delusive but necessary as delusions are;—in short, the hour of departure had struck.