“We will exorcise her,” Hildebrand laughed back, and advanced towards the girl. Perpetua drew away a little, regarding Hildebrand with a steadiness that puzzled him, resolved to drive the knife into her heart before he could lay hand on her. To Robert, where he lay huddled, the spinning seconds seemed to be beating against his ears like the booming of great bells, and through their clangor came a babble of brisk voices reproaching him, mocking him. “Now for one hour,” they seemed to say, “of that royal power which you have used so ill, and now might use so nobly.” Again his agony spurred him to supplicate Heaven to send him some thought that might save her, but no thought came; he was weak, helpless, dishonored, and through the darkness of his soul the voices of his enemies stabbed him like many arrows.
Lycabetta, seeing how Hildebrand paused for a moment in his advance upon Perpetua, stung him with a sneer.
“Lord Hildebrand, for a lover of ladies you are at a loss. She clings to her cripple.”
Hildebrand, irritated, made a step forward, and again Perpetua moved a step away. Hildebrand frowned, accustomed to conquest.
“You shun me, child,” he protested, “as if I had the plague.”
The plague!
At those words the booming bells ceased, the babbling voices ceased; Robert’s darkness became light; an inspiration told him what to do. He sprang to his feet and advanced towards Hildebrand, barring his way to Perpetua. With outstretched palms, with cringing shoulders, he appealed to Hildebrand, to Lycabetta.
“Sweet lord, sweet lady, I entreat a sweet word with you.”
Perpetua, who had lifted her hand to clasp the handle of the knife, let it fall again. Hildebrand, who had forgotten the fool’s existence, scowled and snarled at him.
“To heel, sirrah, to heel!”