On his side, Guillem repeated Flamenca’s question and pondered it.
“‘Of what?’ she asked me. Well, it will not be hard to tell her that, for I know only too well whereof I suffer.”
Thursday, therefore, at tierce, he said: “Of love.”
That night Flamenca lay on her bed, more pensive than ever, and with something resembling distress at her heart.
“Well, what did he say, my lady?” asked Alis at last.
“Ah, my friend, you could never guess. It is quite different from anything we might have imagined. He says it is love of which he suffers. Did anyone ever hear of a stranger coming thus to complain of love?”
“Faith, madam,” laughed Alis, with a sly look at Margarida, “of what evil did you think he came here to complain? Surely, had he been beaten or robbed, he would not have sought to lay his complaint before you.”
“But for whom is this love? pursued Flamenca, still puzzled.
“Why my lady, I can guess readily enough,” replied Margarida, also laughing; “but since you would have sure knowledge, ask him that, too.”
“Good God! Is it a jest?” cried Guillem on Sunday, when she had asked him: “For whom?” “Is it possible she does not suspect my love? How can she help knowing that I love her with all my heart? But, since she asks me, I will gladly tell her.”