He caught only a faint protesting murmur from her lips.
“God wither you if you do!” he said hoarsely. “They are murdering the prisoners. Do you hear?—in all the prisons they are murdering the prisoners; and Basile de St Denys is one of them!”
She sprang back from him. Her face was like a face seen in moonlight—white, round a black glare of eyes.
“You lie!” she cried. “He at least is dead already!”
He came at her again—seized her in a very fiend’s grip.
“Is it a time to equivocate? You know, as I, how your wicked hand miscarried on that day. The man is in prison. I myself saw him borne thither three days ago. You must come, and quickly, to be of use. There is no question but that.”
She shook herself free, standing back so that her face seemed to twitch and palpitate in the gusty sway of the lamp-light.
“You are imperious,” she muttered.
“It must not be,” he cried violently, “this horrible thing. You can save him if you will.”
“And can you so master your loathing of me as to ask it?” she said.