She raised her brows, amazed. Too stupendous an instance of condescension, indeed.
He slunk down on his knees before her, cringing and praying.
'No, Madonna, no! I spake out of my great madness.'
'Answer me,' she said disdainfully, 'out of thy little reason. What wouldst thou of me?'
He lifted his shaking hands.
'Sanctuary, sanctuary. Let me hide here.'
He crawled to her, pawing like a beaten dog.
'Sanctuary,' he reiterated brokenly. 'You owe it me—that at least. I've bided, bided—and ye made no sign—yielded all for guerdon of a sweet word, the whiles I thought thyself and Ludovic were stalking that conspiracy to cut it off betimes. God's death! Not you. And now I know the reason. Now comes the reckoning, and I'm left to face it as I will. God's death!' His panic mastered him again. 'What of my substance have I changed for nothing! There was Bona's ring—I might have lived ten year on't. And I parted with it—for what? O, you're a serpent, mistress! You worm your way—and get it too. What! Bona may bide a little, and Simonetta? They're but the bleeding trunk. The head's lopped while I talk.'
His voice rose to a screech—broke—and he grovelled before her.
'Mercy, Madonna. Spare me to be thy slave. All comes thy way—love, and revenge, and power. The boy's dead—the Duke's to die——'