“Your slave listens,” Lycabetta said, lifting her hands to her jewelled forehead in sign of submission.
Robert flung his arm around her and drew her down beside him on the column.
“Lycabetta,” he said. “If I know you well, you are a creature of little scruple, to whom what fools call virtue is a soundless word, and virginity but an unpierced pearl of price in the market.” He paused for a moment, weighing his revenge, tasting it, finding it sweet to savor. “To-night I will deliver into your care a young girl, proud of her purity, strong in her simple innocence. It shall be your task to make her into a courtesan like yourself, shaming and staining the flower of her girlhood into a flaming rose of vice. You can do this?”
“It is an easy task, sire.”
Robert shook his head, and the cruelty in his face deepened.
“You will not find it easy. I think she will resist you. I know she will resist you. Conquer her resistance by what means you please. I shall not question them.” His voice broke into a scream of rage. “Break her spirit, degrade her body, slay her soul, and when she is as I would have her be, send me word that I may come and laugh at her.”
Lycabetta watched him curiously.
“It shall be done, sire,” she said, dispassionately.
“She is angel-fair. Fools would say she was angel-good—fools who believe in angels. She will plead with the speech of angels. You must be pitiless.”