"It is well," said Gilles de Retz, standing erect with a satisfied air. "All is well. The three Scots who sought my life are gone to their destruction. Now, Sybilla de Thouars, I bid you look upon John, Duke of Brittany. Tell me what he does and says."
The level, impassive, detached voice began again. The hands clasped the cross of gold more closely under the silk apron.
"I see a room done about with silver scallop shells and white-painted ermines. I see a fair, cunning-faced, soft man. Behind him stands one tall, spare, haggard—"
"Pierre de l'Hopital, President of Brittany—one that hates me," said de Retz, grimly between his teeth. "I will meet my fingers about his dog's throat yet. What of him?"
The Lady Sybilla, without a quiver of her shut eyelids took up the cue.
"He hath his finger on a parchment. He strives to point out something to the fair-haired man, but that other shakes his head and will not agree—"
The marshal suddenly grew intent, and even excited.
"Look closer, Sybilla—look closer. Can you not read that which is written on the parchment? I bid you, by all my power, to read it."
Then the countenance of the Lady Sybilla was altered. Striving and blank failure were alternately expressed upon it.
"I cannot! Oh, I cannot!" she cried.