"I would he were swinging over the gate yonder," said Felix.
"Ay; spy or no spy, it would have pleased the populace," said Bertrand.
"And served as a warning," returned the Count. "We shall have all sorts of wastrels begging favors of the new Duke."
"That depends."
"On what?" asked Felix.
"On the new Duke."
"True. He may be made of sterner stuff than we imagine." And the Count re-entered the castle.
"I trust not," muttered Father Bertrand as he went back to the lodging of the wounded sentry. "Pliability will suit us best just now, and a character which lacks resolution. Then——" His lips moved, but no uttered words came. He walked slowly, with eyes on the ground. Perchance he prayed silently.
Count Felix went back to his room, and sat there waiting. His attitude was expectant, and he listened for the shouting that might come in the city streets, for footsteps at the door which would surely come soon. He looked for a long time at a paper on his table—a list of names. He read each name carefully, calling to memory the man as he read it.