"Of flesh and blood, my innocent, tricked out to work my holy will. We needed a Saint, we cleansers of Christendom; ha, noble justiciaries that we are. Well, well, the Virgin served us, and tripped back to a warm nest at Gilderoy, reincarnated by high heaven."
Yeoland stood motionless in the shadows of the room, like one striving to reason amid the rush of many thoughts. She showed no wrath at her betrayal; her pale soul was too white for scarlet passion. The significance of life had vanished in a void of gloom. She stood like Hero striving to catch her lover's voice above the moan of the sea.
Fulviac unbuckled his sword and threw it with a crash upon the table. He thrust his arms above his head, stretched his strong sinews, took deep breaths into his knotted throat.
"The truth is out," he said to her; "come, madame, confess to me in turn."
Yeoland faced him with quivering lips, and a tense straining of her fingers.
"What have I to tell?" she asked.
"Nothing?"
"Save that I loved the Lord Flavian, and that he is dead."
"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
"Ah, you are avenged," she said, "you have crushed my heart; may the thought comfort you."