“Thou art beautiful, and I love thee! Thinkest thou I would tamely leave thee to another? Look on me! Not the Robert thou didst once know. Look on me! Mark on my face the hellish joy I feel in seeing thee!” And he asked himself how he could look upon her fear and grief, and feel no pain?
“Robert, thy eyes are fire, and thou lookest on me as thou of all men least should look. What is thy power—and thy knightly oath—and thine honor? Hast thou forgotten them?”
“Hate knows no honor, Isabelle, and love is often hate.”
“’Tis not too late, Robert! But now I saw thy old self again upon your face. Robert, be thyself. Fly, or they will kill thee!”
“I here am master; tremble—bow before me. None can see me—none can move but at my will. Thou art lost—lost—lost!”
The Princess fell on her knees and clasped her hands.
For a moment he trembled, but then again his face was as Bertram’s face, and he cried, “Thou art lost!”
Then, as she knelt to him—“Robert, Robert, thou whom I so love—to whom I gave my troth, look on me; look on my terror! Mercy! For thyself, mercy! For me, also, mercy! Think of thy faith—thine honor! As you love me, mercy! See me, at thy feet. Robert, Robert, thou whom I so love, mercy—mercy!”
He doubts, he trembles, then his face changes to its old expression, as he stoops and lifts her from the ground. “Thou hast saved thyself.”
“And thee, too, Robert.”