"But why are you thus," he said, irresolute and unable to comprehend whether it was play or earnest, "if it was not your desire? Was it not for this you ran away to the players? What else did you expect? You should be glad, they have made you so pretty."
"Don't! don't!" she said in anguish, as she hid her painted face in her hands; "I cannot bear it. I never dreamed they would be so wicked when your good mother took me to them. She would punish them if she knew."
"What!" exclaimed the astonished King, "my mother took you to them? What do you mean? Tell me quickly."
And Penelophon, in a low, hurried voice, told him the story of her betrayal. Overwhelmed with shame she could hardly speak. Her distress was so acute and genuine that Kophetua's heart bled for her as she told, in simple words, of the ordeal through which she had passed unscathed. A sort of fierce, defiant joy sprang up in his heart as she ceased, to think that his own mother, with all her saintliness, the last friend who had not proved untrue, should now be found out as false and wicked and worldly as the rest. He rejoiced, for at last he was sure that he and the poor crouching thing at his feet were alone in the world together.
He had seen her in her filth and rags, he had seen her in the chaste simplicity of her handmaid's dress, he had seen her as one over whom the cleansing hand of Death had passed; yet never had she shone so pure and holy in his eyes as now, all wantonly bedizened and painted as she was. The frame of dishonour in which her angel beauty was set seemed but to make her more divine. Humbled and ashamed, Kophetua devoutly laid his hand upon her head, and turned her face up to him. He saw no more the rouge and the paint. He marked not the wanton garb in which her beauty was displayed. There was nothing there but the image of perfect womanhood which his dreams had made. He had one wild impulse to take her up in his arms and kiss away her shame, but the holiness which shone in her pleading eyes still held her sacred.
"I will go, child," he said, very gently. "I ask your pardon that I ever came. I will go and see that ere an hour is passed your suffering is ended."
She kissed the lace on the skirts of his coat, as though she would have stayed him for her thanks; but he hurried away, feeling it were guilt to look again.
