"You are sorry, then, for those vile heretics?" asked the fool, curiously.
She raised her head, half-resentfully. "Their souls need no one's pity," she retorted, proudly.
"And you think mine is soon like to be beyond earthly caring?"
Her glance became impatient. "Most like," she returned, curtly.
"But what excuse does the king give for his cruelty?" he continued, musingly.
"They threw down the sacred images in one of the churches. Now a heretic need expect no mercy. They are placed in cages—hung from beams—over the fire. The court was commanded to witness the spectacle—the king jested—the countess laughed, but her features were white—" Here the girl buried her face in her hands. Soon, however, she looked up, brushing back the hair from her brow. "Marguerite has interposed, but she is only a feather in the balance." Abruptly she arose. "Would you escape such a fate?" she said.
He remained silent, thinking that if the mission to the emperor miscarried, his own position might, indeed, be past mending. If the exposure of the free baron were long delayed, the fool's assurance in his own ultimate release might prove but vain expectation. In Paris the trial would doubtless not be protracted. From the swift tribunal to the slow fire constituted no complicated legal process, and appeal there was none, save to the king, from whom might be expected little mercy, less justice.
"Escape!" the jester answered, dwelling on these matters. "But how?"
"By leaving this prison," she answered, lowering her voice.
He glanced significantly at the walls, the windows and the door, beyond which could be heard the tread of the jailer and the clanking of the keys hanging from his girdle.