Tiphaïne heard it and stood listening, her eyes changing their intensity of purpose for a shadowy and vague unrest. Bertrand was still standing by the torch he had thrust into the iron bracket clamped to the wall. The flare flung darkness and light alternate upon his face.
Tiphaïne started up from the prie-dieu, and, opening the chapel door, called:
“Arletta, Arletta!”
No sounds came to them save the crackling and hissing of the wood upon the fire. Tiphaïne passed in, looking into the dark corners of the solar for a crouching figure or the white glimmer of a human face. The room was empty; Arletta had disappeared.
Tiphaïne stood for a moment like one taken with a sudden spasm of the heart. The broken knife-blade shone symbolically at her feet.
“Bertrand!”
The cry came sharply from her, as though inspired by fear.
“Bertrand!”
He followed her and looked round the room, not grasping the prophetic instinct of her dread.
“Hist!”