He fevered in her embrace. He kissed her eyes—her hair—her lips—and a strange dizziness stole over him, a delirium in which he was no longer master of himself.
"Can you not be happy, Tristan?" she whispered gently. "Happy as other men when loved as I love you!"
With a cold sinking of the heart he looked into the woman's perfect face. His upturned gaze rested on the glittering serpent heads that crowned the dusky hair, and the words of Fabio of the Cavalli knocked on the gates of his memory.
"Happy as other men when they love—and are deceived," he said, unable to free himself of her entwining arms.
"You shall not be deceived," she returned quickly. "You shall attain that which your heart desires. Your dearest hope shall be fulfilled,—all shall be yours—all—if you will be mine—to-night."
Tristan met her burning gaze, and as he did so the strange dread increased.
"What of the Grand Chamberlain?" he queried. "What of Basil, your lover?"
Her answer came swift and fierce, as the hiss of a snake.
"He shall die—even as Roxana—even as Fabio, he who boasted of my love! You shall be lord of Rome—and I—your wife—"
Her words leaped into his brain with the swift, fiery action of a burning drug. A red mist swam before his eyes.