Her russet-golden hair hung in broad waves and lightened in
the rays of the oil lamp. Her eyes, that looked at Bernard intently and
inquiringly, were the eyes of old Duke William, whom the Abbot of
Clairvaux had brought to confession and penance long ago, and who had
gone from the altar of his grand-daughter's marriage straight to
solitary hermitage and lonely death in the Spanish hills; they were
eyes in which all thoughts were fearless and in which tenderness was
beautiful, but in which kindness was often out of sight behind the
blaze of vitality and the burning love of life that proceeded from her
and surrounded her as an atmosphere of her own.
"You do not welcome me," she said, looking into his face. "Are you too
deeply occupied to talk with me awhile? It is long since we have met."
Bernard passed his hand over his eyes as if to brush away some material
veil.
"I am at your Grace's service," he said gently, and he rose from his
seat as he spoke.
"I ask no service for myself," she answered, setting her foot upon the
platform and coming to his side. "Yet I ask something which you may do
for others."
Bernard hesitated, and then looked down.
"Silver and gold have I none," he said, quoting, "but such as I have I
give unto thee."
"I have both gold and silver, and lands, and a crown," answered the
Queen, smiling carelessly, and yet in earnest. "I lack faith. And so,
though my people have swords and armour, and have taken upon them the
Cross to succour their brethren in the Holy Land, yet they have no
leader.
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