“You have heard the Count’s words,” said Isabel very icily. “The injured may assign his own reward for the injury. I leave the affair.”
Roger March saluted and withdrew.
The Count, by the window, drummed lightly on the sill with his fingers, looked not at Isabel standing rigid by the hearth. The mental atmosphere held an unpleasant chill.
Sudden sounds broke the silence; trampling of feet on the stairway, exclamations of anger.
Isabel and the Count faced about towards the door. The heavy draperies of the curtain swung aside. Peregrine burst into the room, fell on his knees before Isabel.
“Madam,” he cried thickly, imploring, “I come to crave pardon. Allot me what punishment you will, but dismiss me not from your presence.” The words were out of his lips ere the captain of the guard and two of his men had gained the chamber. Beyond the swaying curtain was a group of women with scared faces.
The Count looked at the kneeling figure; the somewhat cynical smile on his lips was not for it. From the Jester he glanced at Isabel.
“Take the fellow away,” said Isabel.
At the sound of her voice Peregrine looked up at her face. Realization dawned on him. He got to his feet, staggering like a man dazed with over-much wine.
“Your will, Madam?” said Roger sternly. He trusted now to find his hands busy with the rope.