He paused.
"An I have my way," he went on, implacable, thin-lipped, his white features dominating the dim interior of the tent, "you will be hauled under the keel of one of my galleys, you and the miserable wretches who accompanied you."
"With permission, Lord Doge."
It was Matteo who spoke. Hugh was too stunned to make any answer. He was thinking of Edith, of Crowden Wood, of Prior Thomas, of Chesby Castle and the fair English countryside, just turning green under the persuasive breath of spring.
"An it please Your Magnificence," Matteo pursued calmly, "I am not a clerk, and my word will not go far in this matter. But seeing that my head seems to be at stake, with that of my comrade and dear lord, Messer Hugh, I hope you will not take it ill if I say somewhat concerning this charge."
"Speak on," said the Doge curtly.
"Who makes the charge? Who presents the evidence?"
"The scroll was picked up at the entrance of this pavilion by one of the varlets in attendance here."
"Touching that point, Lord Doge, I can say that neither Messer Hugh nor I was present near this pavilion yesterday or during the night just passed."
"True, mayhap," remarked a querulous voice. "But perchance a messenger was despatched with the scroll and dropped it."