“It is only lately,” she answered, “that he has spoken to me of these things. I think, Nicholas, that he is afraid of you.”
“Perhaps,” Reist remarked, bitterly, “he mistook me for an honest man.”
“It is freedom for Theos,” she said, softly, “and revenge upon the King. Whatever may befall him from our hands he has deserved.”
“Is Domiloff still in Theos?” he asked.
She nodded.
“You will find him at the Café Metropolitan,” she said, “only he is now a Frenchman. You must ask for Monsieur Abouyat.”
Reist moved restlessly up and down the room. Often his fingers sought the place where his sword should have been.
“Something I must do,” he muttered. “I might disguise myself as a peasant and fight in the ranks. To be here idle is horrible; to go to Domiloff—I cannot!”
He looked gloomily out into the darkness. The inaction was unendurable. She crossed the room to his side and laid her hand upon his arm.