Robert shook his rage from him, for he needed the woman to play out the evil play.
“Go into the chapel,” he ordered her, “and whisper to the captain of the guard that I need Hildebrand.”
Pagan though the woman was, she respected the ruling faith and made bold to protest.
“Sire, if I disturb the ceremony—”
Robert rose and towered above her, disdainful in pride.
“I am the King. There is no church, no shrine, no ceremony where I am not. Go!”
Not daring to disobey, Lycabetta left him, and, mounting the steps of the chapel, opened the door cautiously and entered. Robert seated himself again with burning brain and heart. A little white, bell-like flower grew at his feet. He trampled it with his heel into the grass, crushing it shapeless.
“How I shall triumph over this Diana,” he said, aloud, hugging his foul thought, “when every seaman can command her!”
Then he sat in silence, brooding over sins, till Lycabetta came out of the chapel and descended the steps, followed by Hildebrand, who came to Robert.
“You called me, sire?” he said.