We were all triumphant then, or about to be. I remember the last night we spent on the Foudroyant. It was a full moon; and, seated under an awning on the upper deck, Lady Hamilton sang “Rule Britannia,” with a cockney fervour which must have pierced reassuringly to the ears of the poor wretches imprisoned behind the floating walls that surrounded us. She was always so much more than equal to the occasion, was Emma.
XXX.
I AM JUSTIFIED IN MY POLICY
It was a dark and gusty night when I issued forth with de’ Medici from a side door of the palace.
“She is condemned,” he had whispered to me a minute earlier.
A needle of ice had seemed to enter my heart. The question my lips could not ask had flown to my eyes. Comprehending it, he had caught at his throat and lolled out his tongue grotesquely. To the same dumb inquisitors he had answered, as confidently as if I had spoken, “To-morrow.”
Then I had found my voice, as if after a fit of choking—
“And she has not spoken?”
“And she has not spoken.”
He had hesitated, before suggesting deprecatingly, “There remains only to make your appeal to her in person.”
I had struck my hands together, hearing that.