Had she been indifferent to me,
or had she but entertained for me a passing liking, she would not
have suffered so.
And so I came to realize how cruel must have been the pang that had
driven her to this. But she had loved me; aye, and she loved me
still, for all that she thought she hated, and for all that she had
acted as if she hated. But even if I were wrong - even if she did
hate me - what a fresh revulsion would not be hers when anon she
learnt that - whatever my sins - I had not played lightly with her
love; that I was not, as she had imagined, the betrothed of another
woman!
The thought fired me like wine. I was no longer listless - no longer
indifferent as to whether I lived or died. I must live. I must
enlighten the Keeper of the Seals and the judges at Toulouse
concerning my identity. Why, indeed, had I ever wavered? Bardelys
the Magnificent must come to life again, and then-- What then?
As suddenly as I had been exalted was I cast down. There was a
rumour abroad that Bardelys was dead. In the wake of that rumour
I shrewdly guessed that the report of the wager that had brought him
into Languedoc would not be slow to follow. What then? Would she
love me any the better? Would she hate me any the less? If now she
was wounded by the belief that I had made sport of her love, would
not that same belief be with her again when she came to know the
truth?
Aye, the tangle was a grievous one. Yet I took heart.
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