"A man has a right to choose for himself," she answered when Beatrix
paused at last.
"Yes, but you take that right from him. You thrust a choice upon him--
that is your cruelty."
"How?"
"Look at me and look at yourself. Would any man think twice in
choosing? And yet--" a faint smile flickered in the mask of pain--"in
Constantinople--in the garden--"
She stopped, happy for a moment in the memory of his defence of her.
The Queen was silent and faintly blushed for her cruel speech on that
day. She could have done worse deeds and been less ashamed before
herself. But Beatrix went on.
"Besides," she said, turning her suffering eyes to Eleanor's face,
"your love is sinful, mine is not."
The Queen's look darkened suddenly. This was different ground.
"Leave priests' talk to priests," she answered curtly.
"It will soon be the talk of other men besides priests," reproved
Beatrix.
"For that matter, are you better?" retorted the Queen. "Have you not
told me that your father has married his mother? You are far within the
forbidden degrees of affinity. You cannot marry Gilbert Warde any more
than I can. Where is the difference?"
"You know it as well as I." The young girl turned her face away. "You
know as well as I that the Church can pass over what is a mere legal
regulation to hinder marriages made only for fortune's sake. I am not
so ignorant as you think. And you know what your love for Gilbert Warde
is, before God and man!"
The blood rose in her white face as she spoke.
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