“The monks of Saint Francis of Cheylas,” he answered.
A something in his tone, a something in his shifty eyes, a cloud upon his fair and usually so ingenuous looking countenance aroused her suspicions and gave her resurrected courage pause.
She caught him viciously by the arms, and forced his glance to meet her own in the fading daylight.
“It is the truth you are telling me, Fortunio?” she snapped, and her voice was half-angry, half-fearful.
He faced her now, his eyes bold. He raised a hand to lend emphasis to his words.
“I swear, madame, by my salvation, that Monsieur Marius is sound and well.”
She was satisfied. She released his arm.
“Does he come to-night?” she asked.
“They will be here to-morrow, madame. I rode on to tell you so.”
“An odd fancy, this of his. But”—and a sudden smile overspread her face—“we may find a more useful purpose for one of these monks.”