Suddenly she cowered back, shuddering, with her eyes fixed on the darkening depths of the gallery and her day dreams died, like pale ashes crumbling on the hearth.
Roger de Laval had entered and was regarding her with a malignant leer that almost froze the blood in her veins. She knew not what business had taken him abroad. Nevertheless was assured that some dark deed was slumbering in the depths of his soul.
"Are you thinking of your fine lover?" he said as he slowly advanced towards her. "You are grieved to have your thoughts broken into by your husband? No doubt you wish me dead—"
"Spare me this torture, my lord," she entreated. "I have answered a thousand times—"
"Then answer again—"
"I swear before God and the Saints he is guiltless. He knew not I was in Rome."
"Swear what you will! A woman's oath is but a wind upon one's cheek on a warm summer day—gone ere you have felt it. The oath of a woman who has followed her lover—"
"I have not done so!"
"You have done your best to make the world believe it."
"What of yourself?" There was a ring of scorn in her voice.