Marian turned to her father.
"It's the same tune two wandering minstrels played one day ever so long ago on the terrace at Bordighera. And that day you were so gay and light-hearted that you and I danced to it together. Oh, I have not forgotten! And now it's my birthday, and we will dance to it again."
"I dance! Madness!"
"It's a very delightful kind of madness. Am I not queen today? Do you dare, sir, to dispute any of my behests?"
"There's Walter."
"It is you, papa, whom I am going to dance with, not that boy. I won't listen to another word. Come! Let us try for a little while to fancy ourselves back in Italy."
"What it is to be a slave of a tyrant in petticoats!"
He offered no further resistance, but slid an arm round his daughter's waist, and the pair began to waltz to the music. Walter stood looking on from the embrasure of one of the windows. Twice had they gyrated the length of the room and back, when Drelincourt caught sight of Roden Marsh's pale face peering at him through an opening in the portière. The latter had approached unseen and unheard by either of the young folk. For a couple of minutes longer the dancers kept revolving to the music, then, as they again drew near the window where Walter was lounging, Drelincourt beckoned to him to take his place, which the young man did, nothing loath. A second later Drelincourt had disappeared through the portière.
"Your news?" said Drelincourt to Roden Marsh, the moment they were alone.
"Found guilty and sentenced to death."