“You cur,” she cried. “I would as soon marry one of my servants.”
She beat upon the door and called out. Domiloff drew out his handkerchief and held it to his cheek. He made no effort to silence her. There was a dull red mark across his face. If she could have seen his expression she would have been frightened.
There came no answer to her calling. She rushed across to the window. There were men on the place below, but they only answered her frantic gestures with dull indifference—at most with a shrug of the shoulders and a smile. They were Russian Jews. It was as Domiloff had said. They were his creatures. It was the one evil spot in Theos. Domiloff stood with his back to her, still with his handkerchief to his face.
She turned upon him fiercely.
“If you do not let me out,” she cried, “Nicholas shall shoot you like a dog.”
“It may be,” he answered, coolly, “that I shall shoot Nicholas. At least there will be something to be wiped out between us. I shall not fear his vengeance.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, suddenly cold with the first sensations of fear. The man’s quietness was ominous, and she could see his face now. He put his handkerchief away and came over to her, catching her wrists with a sudden catlike movement.
“It is your own fault,” he said. “You will remember that blow to your dying day.”
They stood side by side at the window of one of the great reception rooms of the palace, the King and Brand. A driving storm of rain was beating against the glass, and the thunder rattled amongst the distant hills from peak to peak. Ughtred was looking more pale and harassed than when he had ridden, sword in hand, in front of his tiny army and watched the Turks closing in around them.