"Stay!"
I turned slowly, and faced her once more.
"Is it any use? You have answered me."
"No; I have not." Her voice was half strangled, and there were tears of anger and mortification in her eyes. "No; I have not," she repeated; and then gasped out: "I will do what you wish; but I want those letters back."
"That rests with the Queen. She makes no terms with you, and in that you must throw yourself on her pity."
With a low cry she suddenly flung herself down on the cushions, biting at them in impotent fury with her strong white teeth and tearing at the embroidery with her fingers. It was the fury of despair. It was the senseless rage of an animal, and I stood and watched, feeling that a desperate game was won, and almost pitying her, murderess, and worse, though she was.
After a while she looked up at me, her face haggard, her eyes livid.
"Have you no pity?" she moaned. "Are you made of steel?"
"Come, madame! I await your answer, and time presses."
She gave me a deadly glance, and rose slowly, clasping and unclasping he hands convulsively. At last she said: