"You were on the rack this morning?"
"I have to thank you for that; believe me, I prefer it to your kindness."
"Do you? And yet it is ill work to be set on the rack. I can pity you, for I also have been under torture."
"You? What a fool you must think me, to trick me with that easy lie."
"If it is a lie, at least my flesh lies as well as my spirit. See!"
He bared his wrists. De Lusignan could not well mistake those ghastly scars.
"Do you think you are the only man that has ever suffered for his country?"
"I don't know nor care. What is it to me what you have done? Except, indeed, that I'm sorry my shot missed you."
"Poor little enemy!" said the Prince, smiling down into the dark, pain-clouded eyes.
"What can be your purpose in this farce?"
"No farce, Rohan, and no purpose. I did not know they had sent you to the rack; had I known I would have stopped it. For you tried to do me a great service, and though you failed, still I am grateful."
"Did I?" de Lusignan answered. "I did not mean to."
"That I believe. And yet in a way you did mean to; you meant to kill me, didn't you?"
"With all my heart."
"Do you think I should not be glad to die? Do you think it is not a weary, weary fight? See now, Rohan: is this a palace for whose sake a wise man would go in fear of murderers?"
De Lusignan glanced round the bare room and marvelled inwardly. Here was no sign, indeed, of the magnificence of which he had heard so many stories; of the luxury, wrung from the sweat of the people, which was said to be the Prince's guerdon. This seemed rather the room of a soldier; and the Prince's wrists were scarred, and the eyes of the Prince were very sad.
"Do you think," said the Prince, "that it is for this I fight? For lust of gold—I, who am often in want of money? For lust of power—I, whom chance saves from the assassin's hand? Rohan, they've lied to you."
"It's you are the liar."
"Well, . . . perhaps so." Even the Prince flinched slightly before that unremitting contempt. "My little prisoner, my younger brother—may I call you that, or is it an insult to your brother?"
De Lusignan reddened swiftly, and did not answer.
"May I tell you a few more lies? Just people always hear both sides, you know: and my brother is always just. Listen, Rohan: I've stories to tell you. You need not believe them unless you like, and yet they're all true. They are about a man who was very poor, and lonely, and yet he was a Prince. People hated him because he had not always been a Prince, but had been born a poor lad, like any other child. I do not know if it was quite fair for them to hate him, because it was they themselves who had made him Prince, in the old days when they thought they loved and trusted him. Of course, he loved his kingdom; still, I think he would have been glad to give it up, only he was afraid to."
"Afraid?"
"Afraid for the sake of the kingdom. He was afraid if he gave it up to the rebels they would quarrel among themselves, and many of his people would be killed."
"Yes, that is quite true," broke in Rohan, eagerly. "Our leaders can never agree—" He checked himself, flushing at his indiscretion.
"No? So the Prince thought, and therefore he had to fight. It was a hard fight; it is a hard fight still. And what made it hard was this, just this: that he had no friends, no one who loved or trusted him. They called him a tyrant, a robber, a—liar, and what not—"
"Sire!" cried out Rohan, sharply. He could scarcely bear the look in the grand, imperturbable eyes of the Prince.
"They thought he did it for his own sake, because he wanted the crown; they did not know how heavy and sharp is the crown of such a kingdom as his. Really and truly, he only wanted to do them good, to help them, and make their lives a little more free, a little less intolerably bitter. They tried to kill him—hush, child—they tried to kill him, and failed; and he was glad for his country's sake, and very, very sorry for his own. For he was very tired: he would not
