The eavesdropper came through the doorway, and flung herself between Prince Edward and the descending sword.  The sword dug deep into her shoulder, so that she shrieked once with the cold pain of this wound.  Then she rose, ashen.  “Liar!” she said.  “Oh, I am shamed while I share the world with a thing as base as you!”

In silence de Gatinais regarded her.  There was a long interval before he said, “Ellinor!” and then again, “Ellinor!” like a man bewildered.

“I was eloquent, I was magnificent” she said, “so that in the end her reserve was shattered! Certainly, messire, it is not your death which I desire, since a man dies so very, very quickly.  I desire for you—­I know not what I desire for you!” the girl wailed.

“You desire that I should endure this present moment,” de Gatinais replied; “for as God reigns, I love you, of whom I have spoken infamy, and my shame is very bitter.”

She said:  “And I, too, loved you.  It is strange to think of that.”

“I was afraid.  Never in my life have I been afraid before to-day.  But I was afraid of this terrible and fair and righteous man.  I saw all hope of you vanish, all hope of Sicily—­in effect, I lied as a cornered beast spits out his venom.”

“I know,” she answered.  “Give me water, Etienne.”  She washed and bound the Prince’s head with a vinegar-soaked napkin.  Ellinor sat upon the floor, the big man’s head upon her knee.  “He will not die of this, for he is of strong person.  Look you, Messire de Gatinais, you and I are not strong.  We are so fashioned that we can enjoy only the pleasant things of life.  But this man can enjoy—­enjoy, mark you—­the commission of any act, however distasteful, if he think it to be his duty.  There is the difference.  I cannot fathom him.  But it is now necessary that I become all which he loves—­since he loves it,—­and that I be in thought and deed all which he desires.  For I have heard the Tenson through.”

“You love him!” said de Gatinais.

She glanced upward with a pitiable smile.  “No, it is you whom I love, my Etienne.  You cannot understand how at this very moment every fibre of me—­heart, soul, and body—­may be longing just to comfort you, and to give you all which you desire, my Etienne, and to make you happy, my handsome Etienne, at however dear a cost.  No; you will never understand that.  And since you may not understand, I merely bid you go and leave me with my husband.”

And then there fell between these two an infinite silence.

“Listen,” de Gatinais said; “grant me some little credit for what I do.  You are alone; the man is powerless.  My fellows are within call.  A word secures the Prince’s death; a word gets me you and Sicily.  And I do not speak that word, for you are my lady as well as his, and your will is my one law.”