"No! no! it is false!" she protested vehemently, "false I tell you! It was not I . . ."
Her voice broke in a pitiable, wistful sob, which would have melted a heart less stony than that which beat in the Cardinal's ambitious breast.
"Oh! have I not endured enough?" she murmured half to herself, half in appealing misery to him. "Jealousy—hate for that woman whom he loves as he never hath loved me . . . whom he loves better than his honour . . . for whose sake he will stand there anon, branded with infamy. . . ."
Her knees gave way under her, she fell half prostrate on the floor at the very feet of her tormentor.
"Find her, my lord," she sobbed passionately, "find her . . . you can . . . you can. . . ."
But for sole answer he once more pushed the door ajar.
Another voice came from the body of the hall now, that of Mr. Barham, the Queen's Serjeant—
"And having proved Robert d'Esclade, Duke of Wessex, guilty of this most heinous murder, I, on behalf of the Crown, will presently ask you, my lord, to pass sentence of death upon him."
"No, no, no—not death!" she moaned, "not death. . . . They are mad, my lord—are they not mad? . . . He guilty of murder! Oh! will no one come forward to prove him innocent?"
"No one can do that but you, my daughter," replied His Eminence sternly, as he once more closed the door.