The man was obviously hysterical with fright, and Sir James let him go.
"Put up your horses," he ordered. "We must look into this."
With swords drawn, they passed the outer courtyard and explored the vast emptiness of the Palace, hundreds of gorgeous rooms and corridors, scores of buildings and gardens. They did not find a trace of human existence until they came upon the body of a dead Varangian at the foot of the steps leading to the Hall of Audience. Farther up the steps, under the columned portico, lay a heap of Varangians and mutes of the Ethiopian Guard.
As they cautiously entered the doorway of the Hall itself a cry of horror escaped the lips of every one of them. The magnificent chamber, floored and walled and roofed with semi-precious stones, carpeted with ancient rugs and tapestries, was a shambles running blood. Dead men lay in windrows and scattered piles, and on the steps of the Imperial throne a wall of corpses was reared, topped by one body half-erect. The helmet had been hacked off; the gilded armour and scarlet surcoat were rent and torn and stained with blood; the grey beard was flecked with gore.
"Sir Cedric!" exclaimed Hugh in awe.
"Ay, 'tis the Grand Acolyth," said Sir James. "Here is foul work!"
They lifted the body from the corpses that cumbered it, and stretched it in a clear corner beside the dais. As they stood back, Sir Cedric's eyes flickered open.
"Mocenigo," he gasped, and lapsed into unconsciousness.
Hugh's face was twisted with pain.
"Edith!" he cried. "Ah, I knew he intended evil! 'Tis he and Helena Comnena, I will warrant!"