“He knows, and approves.”
“Approves?”
“Thunder of God! How do you suppose he regards this outrage to his pride, this abuse of his love? A common adventurer, a mere tavern-thrummer, without voice or standing—and to practise his damned arts on the very soil of a newly-turned grave! Whatever tolerance was shown him once is over and done with. He stands sentenced like a poaching dog. O, be sure the duke is in it!”
“What if it be too late?”
“Too late?” He made a step, and gripped her arm. “They are not gone already?”
“Not that. But for an hour they were alone together last night.”
He gave a deep sigh, and dropped his hold.
“It is never too late there. But I trust the vestal in her—and his own discretion. An hour is nothing. You must besiege these shy fortresses a week before they surrender.”
“Then I will not be a party to his murder.”
“You will not?”