He was the next to reach the upper floor: Des-Essars himself, white and tense. ‘She will speak to you here,’ he told the Italian. ‘Show yourself to her.’
‘Altro!’ said Davy. Immediately after, they heard the Queen coming.
She paused on the landing and looked about her. Then she saw the Italian. ‘You wait for me, David? Go in, mes belles,’ she said to Fleming and Seton, who were with her; ‘and you too, Carwood. I am coming.’
They left her, and she stood alone, waiting, but not beckoning. She looked very tired.
The Italian approached her on tiptoe, and began to talk. He talked in whispers, with his hasty voice, with his darting, inspired hands, with every nerve of his body. She was startled at first—but he flooded her with words: she had turned her face quickly towards him, with an ‘Oh! Oh!’ and then had looked as if she would run. But he held out his imploring hands; he talked faster and faster; he pointed to heaven, extended his arms, patted his breast, jerked his head, sobbed, dashed away real tears. She was trembling; he saw her trembling. He folded arms over breast, flung them desperately apart, clasped his hands, seemed to be praying. Godlike clemency seemed to sit in him as he talked on; he looked at her with calm, pitying, far-searching eyes. His words came more slowly, as if he was now announcing the inevitable sum of his frenzy. She considered, hanging her head; but when he named her brother she started violently, could not control her shaking-fit, nor bring herself to look into the shadow. The Italian beckoned to his patron, who then came softly forward out of the dark.
‘Dear madam, dear sister——’ he began; but she stopped him by a look.
‘Brother, are you leading me?’
He denied it with an oath.
‘Brother,’ she said again, ‘I do think it.’
Then he changed, saying: ‘Why, then, sister, if I am, it is whither your heart has cried to go.’