“I will tell you, though it pains me even to recall it. To mock and torment me, in handing me the psalter, he murmured ‘alas!’ as if it were he who suffered, not I.”
“What was his bearing, my lady, as he said this?”
“He kept his eyes cast down.”
“Why, then, madam, I am not so sure he meant to insult you. It appears to me as if he felt some fear in your presence, rather than overweening pride.”
“It is true,” reflected Flamenca, that “he blushed and sighed.”
“Certainly,” then broke in Alis, “this young man did not seem so ill-bred as to wish to harm you. Besides, he is not the one who always gives us the pax. He is taller and handsomer. He is more skilled at reading, also, and sings more clearly. In short, he had all the seeming of a gentleman.”
“My lady,” spoke up Margarida, once more, “I do not know this young man, or what he wants of you, but I think you would do well to discover his meaning.”
“You speak as if that were an easy matter,” replied Flamenca, petulantly. “How can I?”
“Christ, my lady,” exclaimed Alis, “if it were left to me, I should manage easily enough. Ask him! He said ‘alas’. Do you say to him now: ‘Why do you complain?’”
“I can try,” said Flamenca, still doubtful.