She drew nearer and lowered her voice mysteriously. "That Tristan de Giblet—he who would have killed the King the night that he climbed the city-walls and fled to Rhodes—we know the tale——"
"Aye, aye; we know it. And then?"—they pleaded impatiently.
But Dama Ecciva was not to be swerved from the irritating composure which pleased her mood for the moment:
"And one of us—hath any one seen Alicia de Giblet? She hath not been among us since that night of the signal fire."
"She hath been ill, in the Château de Giblet this month past," several voices responded at once.
"Perchance, sweet maids;—or in some other less splendid castle where dungeons are of more account than the fine banquet hall of the de Giblet! And because Alicia is sister to this Messer Tristan—I have done much thinking of late—it is time for the Bernardini to return. Let us give over talk."
"Alicia de Giblet was sister to that traitor!" one of them exclaimed indignantly; "and we never dreamed it! But she was gentilissima; poverina! Ah, the pity of it!"
"But how came she ill, 'because of it,' as thou sayest, Ecciva?" Eloisà questioned, wishing ever to have a reason for her beliefs; "it was long since!"
"The night of the King's flight was long since—verily—before his coronation. Carlotta was Queen, then;—there have been wars and death and woe enough since then! But this night of the signal fire is but a month agone—and that night came Tristan de Giblet to talk with his sister, who let him into the Palazzo Reale. The daring of the man! We are not cowards—we Cyprians!"
"Ecciva!—how canst thou verily be sure!"