"I am a
physician, as thou knowest, and it is written that he who would
have his wound cured must not shrink when the leech probes and
tests it. Seest thou, I am about to lay my finger on the sore.
Thou lovest this kinswoman of the Melech Ric. Unfold the veil
that shrouds thy thoughts--or unfold it not if thou wilt, for
mine eyes see through its coverings."
"I LOVED her," answered Sir Kenneth, after a pause, "as a man
loves Heaven's grace, and sued for her favour like a sinner for
Heaven's pardon."
"And you love her no longer?" said the Saracen.
"Alas," answered Sir Kenneth, "I am no longer worthy to love her.
I pray thee cease this discourse--thy words are poniards to me."
"Pardon me but a moment," continued Ilderim. "When thou, a poor
and obscure soldier, didst so boldly and so highly fix thine
affection, tell me, hadst thou good hope of its issue?"
"Love exists not without hope," replied the knight; "but mine was
as nearly allied to despair as that of the sailor swimming for
his life, who, as he surmounts billow after billow, catches by
intervals some gleam of the distant beacon, which shows him there
is land in sight, though his sinking heart and wearied limbs
assure him that he shall never reach it.
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