The Countess, still trembling from head to foot, took two or three swift turns across the room. The few gentle lines about her face were more like furrows; the skin was very tight over the lips and cheek-bones. She opened the door softly. Isoult was still in the ante-chamber, leaning over the Book of Hours, wherein she had found treated of the 'Seven Sorrowful Mysteries.' Her short hair fell curling over her cheeks; but she was boyish enough, to sight. The Countess went quickly behind her, and before the girl could turn about was satisfied of the amazing truth.
Isoult, blushing to the roots of her hair, stood up. Her troubled eyes tried at first to meet her accuser's stony pair. They failed miserably; almost any plight but this a girl can face. She hung her head, waiting for the storm.
"Why are you here, woman?" came sharp as sleet.
"I came to warn my lord, madam."
"What are you to him?"
Now for it;—no, never! "I am his servant, madam."
"His servant? You would say his—" The Countess spared nothing. Isoult began to rock. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed dry.
"Answer me, if you please," continued the Countess. "What are you to this man?"
Isoult had no voice.
"If you do not answer me I shall treat you for what I know you are. You know the penalty. I give you three minutes."