Wilt thou paint this face of mine that is, it
seems, so little to thy liking? Strain not my patience over much--
'tis a slender cord at best, and somewhat tried already. Speak, is
it yea or nay?"
Hilarius looked away to where Mary's flowers lay bruised and
scattered on the flag of blood-red marble; his answer came low and
clear:-
"'It is nay.'"
She thrust her head forward, and looked at him wondering; there was
a stain where her teeth had been busy.
"'It is nay,'" she repeated after him, and her eyes mocked him.
"May a poor Princess ask the Signor's reason?"
Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies.
"It lies there."
For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of her
cheek; then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she stammered
in her wrath:-
"And dost thou--dost thou dare, say this to my face--to me, who
stooped to ask when I had but to command? I, with my unmatched
beauty; I, who hold the hearts of men in thrall to the lifting of
my eyes; I, to whom men kneel as to their God! Art thou mad, mad,
that thou canst set aside such a behest as mine? 'Tis small wonder
men say thy doublet hides a monkish dress; of a truth the tale they
brought savoured of little else.
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