"And thou, cruel, wouldst thou leave me?" said the Greek, weeping. "How shall I live without thee?"
The Templar laughed slightly. "Can such eyes ever weep without a comforter? But farewell; I must not be found with thee. To-morrow I depart for Frankfort; we shall meet again."
As soon as the door closed on the Templar, the Greek rose, and pacing the room, said, "Selfish, selfish! how could I ever trust him? Yet I dare not brave Otho alone. Surely it was his step that disturbed us in our yesterday's interview? Nay, I will fly. I can never want a companion."
She clapped her hands; a young page appeared; she threw herself on her seat and wept bitterly.
The page approached, and love was mingled with his compassion.
"Why weepest thou, dearest lady?" said he; "is there aught in which Conrad's services—services!—ah thou hast read his heart—his devotion may avail?"
Otho had wandered out the whole day alone; his vassals had observed that his brow was more gloomy than its wont, for he usually concealed whatever might prey within. Some of the most confidential of his servitors he had conferred with, and the conference had deepened the shadow of his countenance. He returned at twilight; the Greek did not honour the repast with her presence. She was unwell, and not to be disturbed. The gay Templar was the life of the board.
"Thou carriest a sad brow to-day, Sir Otho," said he; "good faith, thou hast caught it from the air of Liebenstein."
"I have something troubles me," answered Otho, forcing a smile, "which I would fain impart to thy friendly bosom. The night is clear and the moon is up, let us forth alone into the garden."
The Templar rose, and he forgot not to gird on his sword as he followed the knight.