Teresa nodded assent. She was a little worried—her brother’s face looked worn and pale, and he seemed moved beyond himself. She watched him nervously as he pushed aside the dividing curtain, and looked into the adjoining room. It was still vacant. The window stood open, and the line of the sea, glittering in the moon, shone far off like a string of jewels,—while the perfume of heliotrope and lilies came floating in deliciously on the cool night-breeze. Satisfied that there was as yet no sign of his Royal master, he turned back again,—and stooping his tall head, kissed the charming girl, whose anxious and timid looks betrayed her inward anxiety.
“I am ready, Teresa!” he said cheerfully; “Lead the way!”
She glided quickly on before him, along an inner passage leading to the Queen’s apartments. Arriving at one particular door, she opened it noiselessly, and with a warning finger laid on her lips, went in softly,—Sir Roger following. The light of rose-shaded waxen tapers which were reflected a dozen times in the silver-framed mirrors that rose up to the ceiling from banks of flowers below, shed a fairy-like radiance on the figure of the Queen, who, seated at a reading-table, with one hand buried in the loosened waves of her hair, seemed absorbed in the close study of a book. A straight white robe of thick creamy satin flowed round her perfect form,—it was slightly open at the throat, and softened with a drifting snow of lace, in which one or two great jewels sparkled. As Sir Roger approached her with his usual formal salute,—she turned swiftly round with an air of scarcely-concealed impatience.
“Where is the King?” she demanded.
Startled at the sudden peremptory manner of her question, Sir Roger hesitated,—for the moment taken quite aback.
“Did I not tell you,” she went on, in the same imperious tone; “that I made you responsible for his safety? Yet—though you were by his side at the time—you could not shield him from attempted assassination! That was left,—to a woman!”
Her breast heaved—her eyes flashed glorious lightning,—she looked altogether transformed.
Had a thunder-bolt fallen through the painted ceiling at Sir Roger’s feet, he could scarcely have been more astounded.
“Madam!” he stammered,—and then as the light of her eyes swept over him, with a concentration of scorn and passion such as he had never seen in them, he grew deadly pale.
“Who, and what is this woman?” she went on; “Why was it given to her to save the King’s life, while you stood by? Why was she brought to the Palace to be attended like some princess,—and then taken away secretly before I could see her? Lotys is her name—I know it by heart!”