That was it--a strong, honest, fearless man. That was why it all
moved her so--that was why it was not an insult that this low-born
fellow should dare to tell her he loved her. She opened her lids again
and saw his great figure leaning back against the rock, his white face
turned upward, his eyes half closed. She went near to him again.
Instantly, he made an effort and stood upright. Her instinct told her
that he wanted neither pity nor forgiveness nor comfort.
"You are a brave, strong man, Ruggiero; I will always pray that you may
love some one who will love you again--since you can love so well."
The unspoiled girl's nature had found the right expression, and the only
one. Ruggiero looked at her one moment, stooped and touched the hem of
her white frock with two fingers and then pressed them silently to his
lips. Who knows from what far age that outward act of submission and
vassalage has been handed down in southern lands? There it is to this
day, rarely seen, but still surviving and still known to all.
Then Ruggiero turned away and went up the sloping rocks again, and
Beatrice stood still for a moment, watching his tall, retreating figure.
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