'Does he?'
'He'll not ride home again.'
She stared at him in silence a moment; then suddenly breathed out a little wintry laugh.
'So?' she whispered—'So? Well, thou art not the Duke.'
He struggled to clear, and could not clear, his throat. His low forehead, for all the cold, was beaded with sweat.
'All's one for that,' he muttered thickly. 'There's no class in carrion.'
She still conned him, with that frigid smile on her lips.
'Dost mean they'll seek to kill thee too?'
He clawed at his head in a frenzy.
'Ay, I mean it.'