“Speak! daughter!” cried Father Norham, imperiously. “The secret must be told.”
“Keep me not in suspense!” cried the earl, looking at her.
“You will think me very deceitful when I tell you that my heart was not wholly yours when I wedded you,” she replied.
“Not wholly mine!” he exclaimed in a tone of suppressed fury. “Who then was my rival?”
“The prince,” she replied.
“The prince!” he exclaimed, with a sudden burst of rage. “Since he was capable of this perfidy, I renounce him—I throw off my allegiance—I will break the sword I have borne for him——”
“Hear me, my lord,” she cried, clinging to him.
“Away!” he exclaimed, casting her from him. “How fondly I have loved you, you well know, but now you are hateful to me. Never let me behold you more!”
“Hold! my lord,” interposed Father Norham, in a tone of authority which the earl could not resist. “There must be no misunderstanding between you and the countess. By my counsel she has made this confession to you, because the secret has long weighed upon her heart, and because you may never meet again in this world. Listen to me, my lord. The love conceived by the countess for the prince was simply an ardent feeling of loyalty, carried, perchance, to excess; but in no way culpable. If the prince's image was placed above your own in her breast, you need feel no jealousy. Nor can the prince be blamed, for word of love never passed his lips—nor was he aware of the passion he inspired.”
“Is this so?” cried the earl.