“What motive in this monstrous thing?”
“The motive,” said the Sibyl, “of resentment, for a reward once promised and withheld; the motive of man’s ambition, which is ruthless; the motive of one whose nature it is to betray all trusts confided in him.”
She really believed, poor girl, on the misrepresentations of her employer, that Cartouche was conspiring to overthrow his.
The King smote his thigh.
“He shall die,” he cried.
Bonito saw, though he did not, how Cassandra started at the word.
“Nay,” he said hurriedly; “the Fates are not to be propitiated with blood. Uproot the tree—not fell it.”
“But the shadow, Magician,” said the King peevishly—“how it hath spread already, sowing the ground with insurrection!”
“That crop would but grow lusty with his blood. Nay, I know not but that only to uproot him might not precipitate the eclipse.”
“My God! You falsify the parable.”