Then with a quick jerk she threw up her head, and tears were standing in her eyes ready to overflow.

But the wetness made them beautiful, like a pebble of bright colors with the dew upon it and shone on by the sunshine of the morning.
"You hurt me," she murmured reproachfully, looking at me more like a child than ever I had seen her.

She was very near to me.
"_I_ make you suffer!" cried I, greatly astonished.

"How can Hugo Gottfried have done this thing ?" For it seemed impossible that a poor lad, and one alien by his birth from the hearts of ordinary folk, should yet have the power to make a great lady suffer.

For a great lady I knew Ysolinde to be even then, when her father seemed to be no more in the city of Thorn than Master Gerard, the fount and treasure-house of law and composer-general of quarrels.
But I might have known that he was no true lawyer to be so eager about that last.