The Count of Cornwall guessed from the merchant’s face that matters had fallen out ill for him somewhere. He forestalled Radamanth’s confession with an impatient gust of words.
“She is still in a deuce of a temper?”
“My lord, it is otherwise.”
“Then why so glum—man, have I not uncovered ingots of gold for you if I wed?”
Radamanth held his hands up like a priest giving a blessing. Any one might have thought him grieved to death by the ingratitude of his niece’s desertion. The goldsmith dealt in coarser sentiment.
“My lord, the girl has forsaken my house and fled.”
Gorlois had half expected some such news. He said nothing, but merely stared at Radamanth with dark masterful eyes, while his fingers played with the tassels of his belt. His heart was already away over moor and dale chasing the gleam of a golden head of hair.
“When did you miss her, goldsmith?”
“She crept away at dusk yesterday.”