“You weep, my brother. I have yet more to tell thee. Before she spoke these last sad words, she placed a paper in my hands—her will—and she said, ‘Bid him read it when he thinks he is worthy to read it.’”
“That is not now, Alice. Keep this will; something tells me ’tis best in thy hands. Read my mother’s will now! now that I am borne down with sorrow, against which I do rebel with all my strength. And, sister Alice—I love a lady who, I fear, doth dread me.”
“Dread thee?”
“She is the princess of Sicily. Her father looked on me with but a troubled eye—and so I strove to steal her. But they fought bravely for their princess, and they saved her. I was down—down upon the ground, and I feared never more to see my own dear land—when a noble knight came to my rescue and delivered me. They fell before his arm as the blades of corn before the reaper. He saved me and he is my dear friend, my dear loving friend!”
As he spoke, Bertram was standing not far off; his face wearing a grave, almost a gracious smile, and his white right hand high above him playing with the folds of a flame-red tent.
“And the princess, brother—does she love thee?”
“Alas, sister—how should I know?”
“Nay—write to her.”
“And who shall be my herald?”
“Who—I will be thy herald!”