She asked instead of answered:
“Is your prisoner still alive?”
“The son of the Outlaw? Yes, but he would be a confident prophet who would predict as much for him at this hour to-morrow.”
“Take me, I beg of you, to the Countess.”
“That is as it may be. Who are you and what is your business with her?”
“I shall reveal myself to her Ladyship, and to her will state the object of my coming.”
“Your object is plain enough. You are some tatterdemalion of the forest come to beg the life of your lover, who hangs to-morrow, or I am a heathen Saracen.”
“I do beseech you, tell the Countess that a miserable woman craves permission to speak with her.”
What success might have attended her petition is uncertain, but the problem was solved by the appearance of the Countess herself on the terrace above them, which ran the length of the castle on its western side. The lady leaned over the parapet and watched with evident curiosity the strange scene in the courtyard below, the captain and his men in a ring around the maiden of the forest, who occupying the centre of the circle, peered now in one face, now in another, as if searching for some trace of sympathy in the stolid countenances of the warriors all about her. Before the captain could reply, his lady addressed him.
“Whom have you there, Conrad?”