I would have shouted to her to be wary how she answered him, for some premonition how he was about to trick her entered my mind. But realising the futility of such a course, I held my peace and waited agonisedly.
“You had tortured him in vain then,” she answered scornfully. “For Lazzaro Biancomonte would never have betrayed me. Nor could he have betrayed me if he would, for after your men had searched the hut in which I was hidden, I walked to Cattolica thinking foolishly that I should be safer there.”
Lackaday! She had told him the very thing he had sought to know. Yet to make doubly sure he pursued the scent a little farther.
“Indeed it seems to me that had I tortured him I had given him no more than he deserved for having abandoned you in that hut. Madonna, I tremble to think of the harm that might have come to you through that knave’s desertion.” And he scowled across at me, much as the Pharisee might have scowled upon the publican.
“He is no knave,” she answered, and I could have groaned to hear her working my undoing, though not by so much as a sign might I inspire her with caution, for that sign must have been seen by others. “Nor did he abandon me. He left me only to go in quest of the necessaries for our journey. If harm has come to me the blame of it must not rest on him.”
“Of what harm do you speak, Madonna?” he cried, in a voice laden with concern.
“Of what harm,” she echoed, eyeing him with a scorn that would have slain him had he any manhood left. “Of what harm? Mother of Mercy, defend me! Do you ask the question? What greater harm could have come to me than to have fallen into the hands of Ramiro del’ Orca and his brigands?”
He stood looking at her, and I doubt not that his face was a very picture of simulated consternation.
“Surely, Madonna, you do not understand that we are your friends, that you can so abuse us. But you will be faint, Madonna,” he cried, with a fresh and deep solicitude. “A cup of wine.” And he waved his hand towards the table.
“It would poison me, I think,” she answered coldly.