He raised his hand when she was within a sword’s length of him, and with startling words, delivered in ringing tones, he broke the ponderous silence.
“Wretched woman,” he denounced her, “your sins have found you out. Justice is to be done, and your neck shall be bent despite your stubborn pride. Derider of priests, despoiler of purity, mocker of Holy Church, your impious reign is at an end.”
Tressan fell back aghast, his face blenching to the lips; for if justice was at hand for her, as the Abbot said, then was justice at hand for him as well. Where had their plans miscarried? What flaw was there that hitherto she had not perceived? Thus he questioned himself in his sudden panic.
But the Marquise was no sharer in his tremors. Her eyes opened a trifle wider; a faint colour crept into her cheeks; but her only emotions were of amazement and indignation. Was he mad, this shaveling monk? That was the question that leapt into her mind, the very question with which she coldly answered his outburst.
“For madness only,” she thought fit to add, “could excuse such rash temerity as yours.”
“Not madness, madame,” he answered, with chill haughtiness—“not madness, but righteous indignation. You have defied the power of Holy Church as you have defied the power of our sovereign lady, and justice is upon you. We are here to present the reckoning, and see its payment made in full.”
She fancied he alluded to the body in the coffin—the body of her stepson—and she could have laughed at his foolish conclusions that she must account Florimond’s death an act of justice upon her for her impiety. But her rising anger left her no room for laughter.
“I thought, sir priest, you were come to bury the dead. But it rather seems you are come to talk.”
He looked at her long and sternly. Then he shook his head, and the faintest shadow of a smile haunted his ascetic face.
“Not to talk, madame; oh, not to talk,” he answered slowly. “But to act, I have come, madame, to liberate from this shambles the gentle lamb you hold here prisoned.”