Montalvo walked to the window, and looking out of it remarked that he thought it was going to snow. Then suddenly he wheeled round, and staring hard at Lysbeth asked,
“Are you really interested in this heretic, and do you desire to save him?”
Lysbeth heard and knew at once that the buttons were off the foils. The bantering, whimsical tone was gone. Now her tormentor’s voice was stern and cold, the voice of a man who was playing for great stakes and meant to win them.
She also gave up fencing.
“I am and I do,” she answered.
“Then it can be done—at a price.”
“What price?”
“Yourself in marriage within three weeks.”
Lysbeth quivered slightly, then sat still.
“Would not my fortune do instead?” she asked.