"My heart is a harp in a tree, and it sings to women's voices," he said.

"But you must whisper me love-words if you think to win me."

Perpetua answered him bravely, hoping for Heaven's help in the words she might choose to soothe the madman.

"I will not kneel to you, for my knees bend only to Heaven. But I will speak you fair. If you were shapely, strong, and beautiful, with the white fire of knighthood glowing in your soul, you would laugh at death to pluck the meanest woman in the world from such a snare as mine is."

Her speech stabbed Robert with a fresh fury at the thought of his transformation, and he answered her, grinning like a snarling beast:

"If I were shapely, strong, and beautiful, I would do as I will do. The powers that torture me have flung a jewel at my feet, and I will wear it till I weary of it. You are in my power, saintliness! Discrowned, deformed, dishonored, over you I can still be king."

Perpetua shook her head proudly.

"Do not cheat yourself. I am not in your power."

Robert laughed again.

"Am I deceived? I thought you were a prisoner here. I thought your jailers flung you to me for my pleasure. I thought just now you were my suppliant. Will these walls vanish at your wish? Will those hearts melt at your pleadings? Will I deny myself delight? You are in my power."

Perpetua watched him as calmly as a martyr of old days watched the advance of the doomsman.

"I am not in your power. I am young, and I love life, and would be glad to grow old in the world's way. But I would rather die than live with any stain of shame."

Robert retorted swiftly, mocking her, yet conscious, against his will, of unfamiliar admiration of opposition to his will.

"You foolish ermine, Death's angel does not come at a girl's call."

"She who finds life hateful will find the means to end it," Perpetua said, proudly.

"Is this your virtue?" Robert jeered. "May meekness do self-murder?"

Perpetua lifted her tearless eyes towards the painted roof, fretted with pagan emblems.

"When I appear before the court of Heaven," she answered, quietly, "I think I will find pardon for that sin."

All manner of strange thoughts were contending for the supremacy of Robert's reason. Was that an aureole, strangely luminous, about her head, or only the wealth of her red hair? Was she, indeed, as brave as her brave phrases?

"I take you at your word," he said, more mildly. "Here is that which can set you free from all of us."

He drew the fool's dagger from his girdle and held it to her by its blade.

"Have you the heart to drive this home?" he asked.

Perpetua seized the hilt eagerly.

"Ay, with all my heart, into my heart," she cried, with a confidence that he could not question. "You are the gentlest tyrant in the world, and I will pray for you in paradise." She pressed the weapon with both hands to her breast and bowed her head.

Robert felt certain that she would keep her word, yet the evil in him drove him to taunt her. "You do not strike," he said.

Perpetua lifted her bright eyes, and he read in them the joy of a white soul escaping shame. On his ears her words came like saintly music. "I do but commend my spirit to its Maker. When it is done, of your clemency say a prayer by me. Farewell!"

She raised the weapon in the air, and Robert's troubled soul assured him that she meant to strike, that she meant to die. Awful influences seemed to struggle around him, darkness striving with light. He caught at the light. Voices were calling in his ears, urging evil, urging good. He caught at the good.

"Stop!" he called. "I think your hand has driven a devil from my heart.

You are a saint; you have a soldier's courage; you have conquered me. I am your servant."

Perpetua hid the knife in her bosom and came close to Robert. "Will you truly help me? Let me see your eyes. Yes, I believe you. How may we escape?"

Robert drew his withered body proudly up. "I will command them to set you free."

"Alas! poor soul, they will not obey you," Perpetua said, sadly.

Robert fell from his high estate in a second. "Oh, God, I had forgotten," he groaned. He clasped his hands; his lips murmured a prayer for strength to bear his cross, for strength to serve this woman. For the second time in his sinful life he was thinking of another than himself, and that other was Perpetua. He turned to her with what he meant to be a smile. "Then we are weak things, you and I, a fool and a woman, and we must fight force with craft. Do you trust me?"

"I trust you," Perpetua said, simply.

Robert came close to her and whispered in her ear. "Seem to consent to this cruel jest of theirs. I will say I have cast a spell upon you, and that you can refuse me nothing. When I command you to follow me, say that you obey. Once you are outside these gates, you will be safe. Do you understand?"

Perpetua looked at him with shining eyes. "I understand that I have found a friend."

The words seemed to burn Robert's heart with purifying fire. "A slave who will serve you faithfully," he whispered. "Hush, some one is coming."

XI

GLAMOUR

The hangings behind the image of Venus parted, and Lycabetta surveyed the strange pair. She had grown weary of the garden, grown curious to know how the fool had progressed with his wooing.

"Well," she asked, "are the lovers happy?"

Perpetua folded her arms in silence as Lycabetta descended the steps, but Robert danced up to the Neapolitan antically.

"A marvel, a marvel," he carolled; "I have won the mad maid's heart."

Lycabetta stared at him. "Does Andromeda dote on the monster? Does Beauty love the Beast?"

Robert jigged and skipped in front of her, almost singing his words. If he had the fool's shape, he would play the fool's part to save Perpetua.

"Bah, the husk belies the kernel. I am skilled in philtres--I can cast love spells as well as the straightest and the smoothest."

"Love-making has mended your wits," said Lycabetta. "So you no longer think yourself the King."

Robert laughed wildly. "King or no king," he gibbered, "I sway a maid's heart." He was playing his part bravely, for the air seemed full of voices calling, "Save Perpetua!"

"Does the girl accept you?" Lycabetta questioned.

"Accept me?" Robert echoed, gleefully. "I have so overcome her that she will woo me in season and out of season. I shall boast the most loving, patient spouse in Christendom. Mark, now, how my bird flies to a call.