Arithelli drew a long breath of relief as she shifted in her saddle, and glanced back to see if they were all in sight.
The manta in which she was wrapped stifled her, and the weight of her own hair under the wig and sombrero made her head ache and throb violently.
As they rode she rehearsed her plans in her own mind, telling herself over and over again the things that she must say and do when she was alone with Vardri.
To-night would see Sobrenski's triumph, his grand coup, and when it was all over perhaps she would have peace.
How slowly they all seemed to ride, she thought. She wondered how many of the other men knew that she was chosen to act the part of murderess. Some of them had been kind to her in a rough way, especially the older ones.
But even if they did pity her a little, not one among them but would expect her to do the thing that they would consider obviously her duty.
No one would raise a voice on her behalf, whatever their private sentiments.
The majority of them would probably look upon her as a heroine, for she would have rid them of a spy, a traitor.
She could only hope that she might keep her brain clear, her courage firm till the supreme moment.
Once in the course of that awful day her nerves had given out in physical collapse, and her shaking hands had let fall the mirror of Agnès Sorél.