But the mystery of the Monk of Cluny weighed lightly against the mystery of the woman who held in the hollow of her hand the destinies of Rome.
Basil seemed to read Tristan's thoughts.
Reclining in his chair, he eyed him narrowly.
"You, too, but narrowly escaped the blandishments of the Sorceress, blandishments to which many another would have succumbed. I marvel at your self-restraint, not being bound by any vow."
The speaker paused and waited, his eyes lying in ambush under the dark straight brows.
The memory still oppressed Tristan and the mood did not escape Basil, who stored it up for future reckoning.
"Perchance I, too, might have succumbed to the Lady Theodora's beauty, had not something interposed at the crucial moment."
"The memory of some earlier love, perchance?" Basil queried with a smile.
Tristan gave a sigh. He thought of Hellayne and the impending meeting with Roger de Laval.
His questioner abandoned the subject. Master in dissimulation he had read the truth on Tristan's brow.