"One lives,—the deadliest of the flock."
A chill as of death seemed to benumb Eckhardt's limbs.
"One lives," he gasped. "Her name?"
Delirium seemed to have seized the prostrate wretch. He mumbled strange words while his fingers were digging into the sand, as if he were preparing his own grave.
"Her name!" thundered Eckhardt into the monk's ear.
The latter raised himself straight up and stared at the Margrave with dead, expressionless eyes.
"In the world, Ginevra,—beyond the grave—Theodora!"
"Theodora!" A groan broke from Eckhardt's lips.
"And is this her work?"
He pointed to the monk's chains, and the iron rivets driven into the rocks.