He had roused her at last, and in a flash. She sprang to her feet, white, hardly breathing.
'The boy?' she hissed; 'what boy?'
He whimpered, sprawling:—
'God a' mercy! Lady, lady! the boy, the very boy you sped the ring to kill.'
'Dead!' she whispered.
'Ay,' he snivelled from the ground; 'what would you? dead as last Childermas—starved to death, in the "Hermit's Cell" they call it, by the Duke's orders.'
Her fingers battled softly with her throat.
'Dead!' she said again. 'Narcisso, good Narcisso, who hath gulled thee with this lie?'
'No lie,' he answered, squatting, reassured, on his hams. ''Twas Messer Tassino, no less, that carried thy token to Vigevano. 'Twas no later than yesternight I met our fine cockerel louping from the stews. A' was drunk as father Noah—babbled and blabbed, a' did—perked up a's comb, and cursed me for presuming fellowship with a duke's minion. I plied him further, e'en to tears and confidence—had it all out of him; how a'd carried the ring for Messer Ludovic, and brought back the deadly order. Jacopo nipped the Saint that noon. A's singing in paradise these days past.'
Beatrice stood and listened. A dreadful smile was on her lips. But, when she spoke, it was with wooing softness.