Came upon her, still crouching self-absorbed, that white morning of the Duke's tragedy; and, on the vulture wings of it, Narcisso.
The beast crept to her, fulsome, hoarse, shaken with a heart-ague. She conned him with a contemptuous curiosity, as he stood unnerved, trembling all through, before her.
'Well?' she said at last.
He grinned and gobbled, gulping for articulation.
'It's come, Madonna.'
She half rose on her couch, frowning and impatient.
'What, thou sick fool?'
'Sick!' he echoed loudly; and then his voice fell again. 'Ay, sick to death, I think. The Duke——'
'What of him?'
'Rides to San Stefano.'