The man stared; his eyes did not quail from hers.
"Justice, madame! Of what sin then am I accused? On my soul, I know not who you are."
She calmed herself a little, shook back her hair from her shoulders, fingered her throat, breathing fast the while.
"My name, messire? Ha, you shall have it. I am Yeoland, daughter of that Rual of Cambremont whom you slaughtered at the gate of his burning house. I--am the sister of those fair sons whom you did to death. Blood money, forsooth! God grant, messire, that you are in honest mind for heaven, for you die to-night."
The man had bent to catch her words. He straightened suddenly like a tree whose throat is loosed from the grim grip of the wind. He went grey as granite, flushed red again as a dishonoured girl. The words had touched him with the iron of truth.
"Hear me," he said to her.
"Ah, you would lie."
"By Heaven, no; give me an hour's justice."
"Murderer."
"Before God, you wrong me."