“Go, before there comes to you the death you deserve,” she added, and turned away.
At that moment footsteps sounded near, and almost instantly there emerged from a pathway which made a short cut to the house, the figure of old Gabriel Druse. They had not heard him till he was within a few feet of where Jethro Fawe stood. His walking had been muffled in the dust of the pathway.
The Ry started when he saw Jethro Fawe; then he made a motion as though he would seize the intruder, who was too dumbfounded to flee; but he recovered himself, and gazed up at the open window.
“Fleda!” he called.
She came to the window again.
“Has this man come here against your will?” he asked, not as though seeking information, but confirmation of his own understanding.
“He is not here by my will,” she answered. “He came to sing the Song of Hate under my window, to tell me that he had—”
“That I had brought the Master Gorgio to the ground,” said Jethro, who now stood with sullen passiveness looking at Gabriel Druse.
“From the Master Gorgio, as you call him, I have just come,” returned the old man. “When I heard the news, I went to him. It was you who betrayed him to the mob, and—”
“Wait, wait,” Fleda cried in agitation. “Is—is he dead?”