“Why do you weep, dear Conrin? What makes you thus sorrowful?”
“Sad thoughts and feelings,” answered the page. “I have much to make me weep: but it was that song overcame me. I wept for the sad forebodings that it brought upon my soul, for myself I care not, but for those I have learned to love.”
“What causes have you for grief, dear boy?” said Ina. “Are you not happy here, where all so love you?”
“I cannot tell you, lady,” answered the page.
“Why not tell me your grief? Perchance, confiding it to me, I may aid to mitigate it,” said Ina.
“Oh no, it is impossible; my grief is too deep for consolation; it is a secret I shall never tell,” answered the page.
“But, I may find a means to soothe it,” urged Ina.
“Lady, pray deem me not ungrateful; but again, I beseech you, let me leave you,” exclaimed Conrin. “I love you much; but yet, I love your noble brother more. The only balm you can give to soothe me is to let me go to him.”
“But, why would you leave this calm retreat to hasten amidst scenes of war and bloodshed?” said Ina.
“I would go to my master, wherever he may be, lady,” answered Conrin. “I fear some danger threatens him; I know not what, but dark forebodings steal across my soul. I cannot look upon the future as I used to do, hoping for days of brightness and joy; my heart no longer bounds as it was wont, with thoughts of happiness. Oh let me seek my master, that I may guard him from the threatened harm, if still I may! I would too, gaze upon his loved features once again before I die, for too surely do I feel the troubled inward spirit preparing for its flight to quit this world. I feel that nothing can avert my death, come how it may.”