Bertrand turned towards Tiphaïne, who was half lying below the steps, supporting herself upon her hands. She was dazed, shocked out of her senses for the moment, with the Monk’s blood dyeing her hair and clothes. She looked at Bertrand and gave a little gasp of pain.
He was bending over her on the instant, the distorting anger gone from his face. He took her in his arms and felt the quivering of her body. She clung to him for a moment like a frightened child, staring in his face, her eyes full of the horror of Hanotin’s death.
“Bertrand, my God! oh—let me breathe—air, air—”
He let her lean against the altar, all the savagery gone out of him, his face twitching.
“Are you hurt? Tiphaïne—”
She shook her head, and then pressed her hands over her ears as though to shut out the brutal babel that came from the dark rooms and passage-ways. Bertrand could hear Hopart shouting in the solar, “Kill! Kill!”
“Bertrand, Bertrand, for God’s sake, tell them to spare the wretches!”
She sank to her knees and laid her head against the cold stone-work of the altar, pressing her hands in horror over her ears.
Bertrand lifted a strand of her hair, kissed it, and then turned to end the slaughter.