At Barbaresco's a surprise awaited Messer Bellarion. The whole company of plotters swarmed about him as he entered the long dusty room of the mezzanine, and he found himself gripped at once between the fierce Casella and the reckless Spigno. He did not like their looks, nor those of any man present. Least of all did he like the looks of Barbaresco who confronted him, oily and falsely suave of manner.
'Where have you been, Master Bellarion?'
He realised that he had need of his wits.
He looked round with surprise and contempt in his stare.
'Oh, yes, you're conspirators to the life,' he told them. 'You see a spy in every neighbour, a betrayal in every act. Oh, you have eyes; but no wit to inform your vision. God help those who trust you! God help you all!' He wrenched at the arms that held him. 'Let me go, fools.'
Barbaresco licked his lips. His right hand was held behind his back. Stealthily almost he came a step nearer, so that he was very close.
'Not until you tell us where you have been. Not then, unless you tell us more.'
Bellarion's sneer became more marked; but no fear showed in his glance. 'Where I have been, you know. Hence these tragical airs. I've been to court.'
'To what end, Bellarion?' Barbaresco softly questioned. The others preserved a frozen, watchful silence.
'To betray you, of course.' He was boldly ironical. 'Having done so, I return so that you may slit my throat.'