"Ay?" Basterga blew his nose to hide the flash of triumph that shone in his eyes. "You will be wise in time? Well, I am not surprised. I thought that you would not be so mad—that no man could be so mad as to throw away life for a shadow!"
"But mind you," Blondel snarled, "the proof. I must have the proof," he repeated. He was anxious to persuade himself that his surrender depended on a condition; he would fain hide his shame under a show of bargaining. "The proof, man, or I will not take a step."
"You shall have it."
"To-day?"
"Within the hour."
"And if she be not mad—I believe you are deceiving me, and it was the remedium the girl took—if she be not mad——" The Syndic, stammering and repeating himself, broke off there. He could not meet the other's eyes; between a shame new to him and the overpowering sense of what he had done, he was in a pitiable state. "Curse you," with violence, "I believe you have laid a trap for me!" he cried. "I say if she be not mad, I have done."
"Let it stand so," Basterga answered placidly. "Trust me, if she has taken the philtre she will be mad enough. Which reminds me that I also have a crow to pick with Mistress Anne."
"Curse her!"
"We will do more than that," Basterga murmured. "If she be not very good we will burn her, my friend.
Uritur infelix Dido, totaque videtur
Urbe furens!"