bars, beheld her in the garden path. At that moment he uttered a cry as if some sharp pain had stabbed him suddenly.
“What ails thee, dear cousin?” asked Arcite, coming hurriedly to his side.
“Indeed I know not if I dream, but something walks in the garden below; whether she is maid or a goddess I cannot tell, but I think none but Venus could so walk, or look thus.”
Then, sinking on his knees, Palamon prayed,—“Sweet goddess (if it be indeed thy divine self I have seen), help us, thy servants, to escape these prison bars and find a way out of our captivity.”
Burning with curiosity, Arcite meanwhile raised himself to the gratings and beheld Emelie. But his eye, less reverent than Palamon’s, knew her at once for a mortal like himself.
“O lovely maiden,” he cried piteously, “either I must have thy grace, or I am dead henceforth. All my life and all the deeds that my knighthood may yet be found worthy of, I lay at thy feet.”
At this Palamon started up in anger.
“What dost thou say, Arcite?” he questioned. “The lady is my love. I saw her first.”
“What of that?” rejoined Arcite, “Are not my eyes free to love her too?”
