Lilith began to sob. She hid her face behind her fingers and dared not look at Radamanth. The goldsmith chafed and paced the room, hectoring her. "Don't think to fool me," he said; "you know more yet; you would have answered before if there had been any truth in you." Radamanth's harshness seemed certainly to calm the girl, and to conjure up some passing antagonism in her heart. "The blame is yours, father." "Impertinent child." "Igraine was angry with you." "Well, have I not treated her like a daughter?" "She fled away last night." "Where?" "I don't know." "You do." "I don't, father; 'tis truth." The girl's brown eyes appealed to him tearfully; she was honest enough, and Radamanth knew it. He took her sincerity for granted and proceeded to question her further. "How was she clothed, child?" Lilith looked at the floor and plucked at her gown with her fingers. "Do you hear me?" "Yes, father." "Then answer at once." "I can't." "Upon my soul--" "Igraine made me promise." Radamanth lost his temper again and began to bluster like a March wind. Lilith's cheeks were wet with her tears; they ran down and dropped into her lap like little crystals. She shook and sobbed in her chair, but answered not a word, a martyr to her promises. Then Radamanth, man of money-bags and craft, found something wherewith to loose her tongue. "Listen," he said; "a certain lad never enters this house again, and you never again have speech with him, unless you answer me this at once." The mean measure triumphed. Lilith's tears never ceased, but she gave way at last, and hating herself, told Radamanth what he wanted. Then he left her there to whimper by herself, and went into the garden to speak with Gorlois. The Count of Cornwall guessed from the merchant's face that matters had fallen out ill for him somewhere. He forestalled Radamanth's confession with an impatient gust of words. "She is still in a deuce of a temper?" "My lord, it is otherwise." "Then why so glum--man, have I not uncovered ingots of gold for you if I wed?" Radamanth held his hands up like a priest giving a blessing. Any one might have thought him grieved to death by the ingratitude of his niece's desertion. The goldsmith dealt in coarser sentiment. "My lord, the girl has forsaken my house and fled." Gorlois had half expected some such news. He said nothing, but merely stared at Radamanth with dark masterful eyes, while his fingers played with the tassels of his belt. His heart was already away over moor and dale chasing the gleam of a golden head of hair. "When did you miss her, goldsmith?" "She crept away at dusk yesterday." "Whither?" "Heaven knows, my lord." "How dressed?" "As a grey nun." "Has she gone back to the Church?" "She did not love such a life, my lord." "By God, no."