when in his toils lies the daughter, the mate, the mother of free-born kings of untrodden soil—when beneath the rain of his blows, and from out the meshes of his trap, the great fearless luminous leonine eyes look at him, suffering but unquailing.
"Why do you wait, then?" he asked.
"I wait—for him."
"So! You will, after all be false to one of us. Which?"
"Neither."
"What gage have I of that?"
"That I have said it."
He was silent a moment; he scarcely dared dispute that single bond, her word. Traitor himself to her, he knew that his treachery would never be repaid him by its own coin.
"You wait for him?" he said. "Then so also do I."
"Are you weary of the shame of your life that you seek to lose it?"
"No. But he shall take it rather than I will leave you here."
Through the calm upon her face, the calm of martyrdom, of despair, he saw the conflict of many passions, of infinite misery.
"Will you choose for us to meet?"
