“Yes,” he said, and the others came back.
“What if he is not dead?” said John of Chaldia, and shifted his ivory and silver sabre in his grasp.
Then she, flashing emerald colours in her robe, turned on them, and I saw there is more in a woman than her beauty.
“You are not sure?” she cried, and held up the thousand coloured lamp.
“Basiliskian is dead,” answered Apelates.
“Is Michael dead?” she gave back.
As she stepped towards the door I heard the soft sound her cambric garments made on the floor, and saw her eyes fixed before her with an expression of expectancy and pleasure–eyes like the black jade they prize in China. But Basil held her back with his swarthy hand on the edge of her mantle.
On the smooth walls of opal-tinted tiles moonlight flushed into lamplight that fell tinted with trembling colour; I saw the dark trees through the window and the great space of clear sky. I pulled at the dagger in my wrist, and I heard the Emperor Michael lamenting within.
At the sound of it all save the woman drew back.
“I struck his hands off,” said John of Chaldia, “and he fell on the ground.”