“Ah,” she cried, rage overmastering the scorn in her voice, “but it is pitiful, is it not, for one so particular in his reputation to be jilted by the bastard of Orleans!”
Hearing her laugh, the grotesque creature, who stood still at her elbow, began to chuckle and caper.
“But yes,” he babbled in a wryed, indistinct voice, “Pamela—yes, yes—the bastard of Orleans!”
Ned, gone pale as a sheet, took a fierce step forwards, and at that the woman sprang and intercepted him, putting her hand on her vile henchman’s shoulder.
“Thou shalt not touch him!” she cried. Her fingers caught at the pistol-stock in her belt. Menacing oaths came from the ragged group that awaited her return.
“Tell him, Lucien,” she said to the wretched creature, “who it is we are ever seeking through the streets of Paris.”
“My brother Basile,” answered the man.
His face was a fearful sight—melted featureless it seemed, and with tangs of rusty hair dropping stiff from it in the unscarred patches. For the rest he was nothing but a foul-clad cripple—idiotic, distorted.
She turned upon Ned again.
“Dost thou know me now?” she cried; “or am I still to thee the simple fool that could be wronged and insulted with impunity?”