“And what did you hold Fleta to be then? A mere pleasure seeker, playing with life like the rest, devoid of honour and principle? Was this your estimate of the woman you loved? What else indeed could it be, when you said, let her give her hand to King Alan while you know her love is yours! And you could love such a woman! Hilary Estanol, you have been reared in a different school than this. Does not your own conscience shame you?”
Hilary stood silent. Every word struck home. He knew not what to say. He had been wilfully blinding himself; the bandages were rudely drawn aside. After a long pause he spoke, hesitatingly:
“The Princess cannot be judged as other women would be; she is unlike all others.”
“Not so, if she is what you seem to think her; then she is just like the rest, one of the common herd.”
“How can you speak of her in that way?”
“How can you think of her as you do, dishonouring her by your thoughts?”
The two stood opposite each other now, and their eyes met. A strange light seemed to struggle into Hilary’s soul as these bitter words rang sharply on his ear. Dishonouring her? Was it possible? He staggered back and leaned against the wall, still gazing on the magnificent face before him.
“Who are you?” he said at last.
“I am Father Ivan, the superior of the order to which the Princess Fleta belongs,” was the reply. But another voice spoke when his ceased, and Hilary saw that Fleta had entered, and was standing behind him.
“And he is the master of knowledge, the master in life, the master in thought, of whom the Princess Fleta is but a poor and impatient disciple. Master, forgive me! I cannot endure to hear you speak as if you were a monk, the mere tool of a religion, the mere professor of a miserable creed.”