Perpetua’s hopes drooped as she saw how popular feeling fell from her.
“I am no sorceress, men of Syracuse,” she said, sadly.
Robert pointed to the pale, beautiful girl standing by the pillar and surrounded by the armed men.
“Can you look upon her and believe one evil thought? Save her, in God’s name!”
Again the crowd swayed a little towards the soldiers, urged by Robert, urged by Hieronymus. Again it fell back when Hildebrand raised his hand.
“Friends, this fellow is a madman. If you ask him he will tell you that he is the King.”
The crowd that was wellnigh stirred to mutiny by Robert’s appeals drew back from him suspiciously.
Hildebrand saw his advantage and pressed it. “Is it not so, fellow? Are you not the King?”
Robert’s hands raised in appeal, raised in menace, dropped inertly to his side, and his head drooped on his breast.
“I was the King,” he said, in a voice that was but a whisper.