She had given him a daughter whose head was now adorned by a crown.

In spite of the brief duration of their love bond, she had been clearer to him than all the rest--clearer even than the woman to whom the sacrament of marriage afterward united him.

And she of whom seven years ago death had bereft him?
At this question a bitter smile hovered around his full lips.

How much better love than hers he had known! And how easy Isabella had rendered it not to weary of her, for during his long journeys and frequent dangerous campaigns, instead of accompanying him, she had led in some carefully guarded castle a life that suited her quiet tastes.
A sorrowful smile curled his lips as he recalled the agreement which they had made just before a separation.

At that time both were young, yet how willingly she had accepted his proposal that, when age approached, they should separate forever, that she in one cloister and he in another might prepare for the end of life! What reply would a woman with true love in her heart have made to such a demand?
No, no, Isabella had felt as little genuine love for him as he for her! Her death had been a sorrow to him, but he had shed no tears over it.
He could not weep.