As he was about to pass luting through the entrance, Lysidice parted the curtains and entered the room. Robert fell back to give her passage. With a reverence to Lycabetta, she said:
“The Lord Hildebrand waits without.”
The news brought very different thoughts to the three hearers. Lycabetta, always willing to welcome the King’s favorite, gave order gladly enough to admit him. In Robert’s mind the name rekindled hopes that had died away. His heart’s friend, his brother in arms, the companion of his vices, the flatterer of his follies, he surely would not be deceived by the fantastic transformation. Flinging aside his lute, he shouted, joyously: “Hildebrand! Surely he will know me.”
Perpetua’s heart grew cold at this proof of renewed madness, and she caught him by the arm. “Do not abandon me,” she entreated.
Robert shook her off in his eagerness to greet Hildebrand. “No, no, have no fear—” he promised, hurriedly, pressing forward towards the entrance. The hangings parted and Hildebrand entered, exquisite, debonair, radiant.
“Salutations, sweet lady,” he said, gayly, advancing towards her, but his advance was interrupted by Robert, who rushed forward, exclaiming: “Hildebrand! Hildebrand! do you not know me? Do you not know my voice?”
Hildebrand frowned resentfully on the intruder. “Why are you here, fool!” he grumbled. “Your head and your hump are like to part company.”
Robert gave a great groan and turned away. His last hope had withered. The spell under which he suffered was too potent for his dearest friend to resist; even the eye of comradeship could not pierce through that fleshly mask; even the ear of affection could not discern a familiar voice. Perpetua stood where she was, full of dread at this untimely interruption. Lycabetta tapped her forehead mockingly as she looked from Diogenes to Hildebrand.
“The crazy zany thinks he is the King,” she said.