The bishop shook his head. His profession was peace; yet his blood, also, was hot against the man who had put a slight on Princess Osra.
"The king must know of it," he said.
"The king? The king is not here tonight," said Osra; and she pricked her horse, and set him at a gallop. The moon, breaking suddenly in brightness from behind a cloud, showed the bishop her face. Then she put out her hand, and caught him by the arm, whispering: "Are you my friend?"
"Yes, madam," said he. She knew well that he was her friend.
"Kill him for me, then! Kill him for me!"
"I cannot kill him," said the bishop. "I pray God it may prove untrue."
"You are not my friend if you will not kill him," said Osra; and she turned her face away, and rode yet more quickly.
"KILL HIM FOR ME, THEN! KILL HIM FOR ME!"
At last they came in sight of the little house that stood back from the road, and there was a light in one of the upper windows. The bishop heard a short gasp break from Osra's lips, and she pointed with her whip to the window. Now his own breath came quick and fast, and he prayed to God that he might remember his sacred character and his vows, and not be led into great and deadly sin at the bidding of that proud, bitter face; and he clenched his left hand, and struck his brow with it.