"She is yet in her room, sir prophet," said the maid, trembling with fear.
"And where is that room?"
"The first door to the left opens to a passage leading to it; shall I say to my mistress you would see her?"
"No," he replied in tones husky with anger. "I will see her unannounced. Small need to stand on ceremony with such as she."
And with a few rapid strides he reached the door indicated, and entered the passage leading to the splendid rooms set apart for the use of Isabel.
He threw aside the heavy curtain drawn across the passage and stood in the presence of the woman bent on his destruction. She was seated on a low ottoman with a silver mirror in her hand and a slave was just putting the finishing touches to her toilet. She hastily arose as Corianton entered, and intense anger flashed in her dark eyes.
"Methinks this entrance is somewhat rude, bold Nephite. At least I should have thought a 'prophet' would have had respect for a maiden's privacy."
"Aye, no doubt he would. All men would respect a maiden's privacy; the most licentious wretch would tremble did he invade its hallowed precinct. But who respects the privacy of a commoner? Who pauses on the threshold of a strumpet?"
"Commoner? Strumpet?" echoed Isabel, choking with rage, "what mean you?"
"Mean? mean?" he cried, "I mean that the mask behind which you would hide as Joan is snatched away. I mean that you are a base harlot; that that fair face is besmirked with loathsome filth, that the sweet tones of your voice, the arch smile, that angel form, are but the blandishments of hell to decoy men to ruin. I mean that you with your paramours conspired to work my undoing; and I, fool-like, must walk in midday light into your traps."