e, in the place where now
they have pierced a gate, where red-kerchiefed gipsies sit about on
steps, and vagabonds in mauve caps sell snails by measure. But then a
little vice-regal garden fronted the windows, and the ancient walls of
Tarragona, older than the Romans or the Greeks, older than
Carthage--older even than the galleys of Tyre--fell away beneath towards
the sea verges, so solid that to the eye there was little difference
between them and the living rock on which they were founded. The giants
who were in the times before the flood built them, so the townsmen said.
And as no one knows anything about the matter, that opinion is as good
as any other.

The two young people stood regarding each other, silent. The blonde
masses of the girl's hair seemed less full of living gold and fire than
of yore. Perhaps there was a thread or two of grey mingling with the
graciousness of those thick coils and curves. But the great eyes,
coloured like clover-honey dropped from the comb, were moist and
glorious as ever. They had manifestly gained in directness and nobility.

The Abbe John bowed low. Valentine la Nina did not respond. There was,
however, a slight colour on her cheeks of clear ivory. Man born of woman
had never seen that before.

"I have sent for you," said Valentine la Nina, in a low and thrilling
contralto, "I would speak with you! Yet this one time more!"

She put her hand rapidly to her throat, as if something there impeded
her utterance.

"Yes," she continued, swallowing down her emotion with difficulty, "I
would speak with you--it may be for the last time."

After this she was silent a while, as if making up her mind what to say.
Then with a single instinctive mechanical gesture she twitched her long
robe of white and creamy lace behind her. It seemed as if she wanted all
space wide and clear before her for what she had to say and do. Her eyes
devoured those of John d'Albret.

"You--still--love her?" she said, forcing the words slowly from her
lips.

"I love her!" John answered simply. He had nothing to add to that. It
had been said before. Any apology would be an insult to Claire. Sympathy
a deeper insult to the woman before him.

The carmine flush deepened on her cheek. But it was not anger. The girl
was singularly mistress of herself--calm, resolved, clear-seeing.

"Ah," said Valentine la Nina softly, "I expected no other answer. But
still, have you remembered that I once gave you your liberty?