The Prince was silent, and seemed touched. I had spoken with real feeling, and tears of emotion stood in my eyes.
"I loved her as a man generally loves," he said, after a little pause. "Nay--more than most men love most women!"
"Most men are too often selfish in both their loves and hatreds," I returned. "Tell me if there was anything in Zara's mind and intelligence to attract you? Did you sympathize in her pursuits; did you admire her tastes; had you any ideas in common with her?"
"No, I confess I had not," he answered readily. "I considered her to be entirely a victim to her brother's scientific experiments. I thought, by making her my wife, to release her from such tyranny and give her rescue and refuge. To this end I found out all I could from--HIM"--he approached the name of Heliobas with reluctance--"and I made up my mind that her delicate imagination had been morbidly excited; but that marriage and a life like that led by other women would bring her to a more healthy state of mind."
I smiled with a little scorn.
"Your presumption was almost greater than your folly, Prince," I said, "that with such ideas as these in your mind you could dream of winning Zara for a wife. Do you think she could have led a life like that of other women? A frivolous round of gaiety, a few fine dresses and jewels, small-talk, society scandal, stale compliments--you think such things would have suited HER? And would she have contented herself with a love like yours? Come! Come and see how well she has escaped you!"
And I beckoned him towards the door. He hesitated.
"Where would you take me?" he asked.
"To the chapel. Zara's body lies there."
He shuddered.
"No, no--not there! I cannot bear to look upon her perished loveliness--to see that face, once so animated, white and rigid-- death in such a form is too horrible!"
And he covered his eyes with his hand--I saw tears slowly drop through his fingers. I gazed at him, half in wonder, half in pity.
"And yet you are a brave man!" I said.
These words roused him. He met my gaze with such a haggard look of woe that my heart ached for him. What comfort had he now? What joy could he ever expect? All his happiness was centred in the fact of BEING ALIVE--alive to the pleasures of living, and to the joys the world could offer to a man who was strong, handsome, rich, and accomplished--how could he look upon death as otherwise than a loathsome thing--a thing not to be thought of in the heyday of youthful blood and jollity--a doleful spectre, in whose bony hands the roses of love must fall and wither! With a sense of deep commiseration in me, I spoke again with great gentleness.