She swept forward to the table, and came straight to business.
'And now, sir, your message?'
His fingers stood arrested on the buckle, and his solemn dark eyes opened wide as they searched her pale face.
'Message?' quoth he slowly.
'Message, yes.' Her tone betrayed the least impatience. 'What has happened? What has become of Ser Giuffredo? Why has he not been near me this fortnight? What did the Lord Barbaresco bid you tell me? Come, come, sir. You need not hesitate. Surely you know that I am the Princess Valeria of Montferrat?'
All that he understood of this was that he stood in a princely presence, before the august sister of the sovereign Marquis of Montferrat. Had he been reared in the world he might have been awe-stricken by the circumstances. But he knew princes and princesses only from books written by chroniclers and historians, who treat them familiarly enough. If anything about her commanded his respect, it was her slim grace and her rather elusive beauty, a beauty that is not merely of colour and of features, but of the soul and mind alive in these.
His hands fell limply away from the buckle, which he had made fast at length. His lively countenance looked almost foolish as dimly seen in the yellow light of the lantern.
'Madonna, I do not understand. I am no messenger. I ...'
'You are no messenger?' Her tawny head was thrust forward, her dark eyes glowed. 'Were you not sent to me? Answer, man! Were you not sent?'
'Not other than by an inscrutable Providence, which may desire to preserve me for better things than a rope.'