A great well of pity would spring in his breast, drowning his heart with
its pent-up gushing, and the waters would rise, rise, until they had touched
his eyes. But always before they brimmed over, another change would come.
Slowly, the rigid figure before him would relax into an attitude of idle
grace, the white cheeks would regain their color, the eyes their brightness,
and--presto! she stood before him as he had seen her from the passage, a
high-born maid among her kind, favored by the King, guarded by her lover. When
he reached this point, he always rose with an abruptness that swept his goblet
to the floor and awakened the sleeping dogs.
"Fool!" he would spurn himself. "Mad puffed-up fool! Keep in mind that she has
her consolers, while you have only your wound. If she could stake her all upon
the son of Lodbrok and then give him up at the turn of the wheel, is it in any
way likely that she is dead with tears for you? What? It may easily be that
she has had a new love for every month that has passed."
As the winter wore on, he grew restless in his solitude, restless and sullen
as the waters of the little stream in their prison of ice. He told himself
that when the spring came he would feel more settled; but when on one of his
morning rides he came upon the first crocus, lifting its golden cup toward the
sun, it only gave to his pointless restlessness a poisoned barb.
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