She was strong to speak the truth, inflexibly, to the full; for its degradation to herself she knew was honor to the absent. It showed him strong and cold and untempted, preferring famine and neglect and misery to any debt or burden of a service done.
The old man, leaning on the wooden bar of the gate among the leaves, looked at her long and thoughtfully.
"He would not take your poor little pieces? You mean that?"
She gave a sign of assent.
"That was a poor reward to you, Folle-Farine!" Her lips grew white and shut together.
"Mine was the fault, the folly. He was right, no doubt."
"You are very royal. I think your northern god was only thus cold because your gift was such a little one, Folle-Farine."
A strong light flashed on him from her eyes.
"It would have been the same if I had offered him an empire."
"You are so sure? Does he hate you, then—this god of yours?"