“She trembles,” said Friar Rushak, advancing towards the couch with a terrible look; “conscious of her own depravity, she is guilt-stricken.”
“Ay, she may well be guilt-stricken,” said the Franciscan.
“Alas, of what am I accused, mysterious man?” cried the Lady Beatrice, clasping her hands together, and throwing herself on her knees before them. “Murder me not—murder me not. Let not the holy garments you wear be stained with the blood of innocence.”
“Innocence!” cried Friar Rushak, “talk not thou of innocence! [[519]]Why art thou in these apartments if thou be’st innocent?”
“So help me the pure and immaculate Virgin, I am not here by mine own consent,” said the unhappy lady. “Murder me not without inquiry—I am a prisoner here—I was eager to escape—I should have escaped with Sir Patrick Hepborne, had not——”
“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Franciscan, with a ferocious look. “Ay, so! The curse of St. Francis be upon him!”
“Nay, nay, curse him not—oh, curse him not!” cried Beatrice, embracing the Franciscan’s knees. “Murder me if thou wilt, but, oh, curse not him, who at peril of his noble life would have rescued me from these hated walls.”
“Yea, again I do say, may he be accursed,” cried the Franciscan, with increased energy and ferocity of aspect. “Full well do we know thy love for this infamous knight—full well do we know why he would have liberated thee.”
“But to find thee here as a toil spread by the Devil to catch the tottering virtue of King Richard!” cried Friar Rushak.
“Yea,” said the Franciscan, striking his forehead with the semblance of intense inward feeling, “to find thee a monster so utterly depraved, is indeed even more than my worst suspicions.”