"You loved him before he was very great, didn't you?"
"Yes. Back in the Cold Country. When he was only a boy—and I was no more than a girl half grown. I love him for himself, I tell you——"
Elza interrupted; and her voice risen to greater firmness, held a quality of earnest pleading.
"Wait, Tara! You love Tarrano for himself—because you are a woman capable of love. It is the man you love—not his deeds, or his fame or his destiny. Isn't that so?"
"Yes. I——"
"Then won't you give me credit for being a woman with instincts as fine as your own? The love of a good woman goes unbidden. You can't win it by conquering worlds and flinging them at her feet. Tarrano thinks you can. He thinks to dazzle me with his feats of prowess. He wants to buy my love with thrones for me to grace as queen. He thinks my awe and fear of him are love. He thinks a woman's love is born of respect, and admiration, and promises of wealth. But you and I, Tara—we know it isn't. We know it's born of a glance—born in poverty and sickness—adversity—every ill circumstance—born without reason—for no reason at all. Just born! And if anything else gives it birth—it is not a true woman's love. You and I know that, Tara. Don't you see?"
Tara was sobbing unrestrainedly now, and Elza, with arms around her, went on:
"You should be proud to love Tarrano. If I loved him, I would be proud of him, too. But I do not——"
A step sounded near at hand. Tarrano stood in the archway, with arms folded, regarding us sardonically.