She stood under an apple tree, called to him, and beckoned. He came to her—a short, burly fellow with the look of a bull, and brute writ large on his visage. Morgan drew him under the swooping dome of the tree, plucked something that shone from her bosom, and dangled it before his eyes.
“The cross,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Galerius, the cross.”
The man stared at her stupidly. Morgan lifted a finger, ran this way and that peering into the green glooms and listening. Then she came back to the man, soft-footed, glib as a cat, with the cross of gold gripped in her fingers. She smiled at him, a smile that was almost a leer.
“Galerius,” she said, “the knight in the house yonder wears a chain with one cross missing, and the fellow cross matches this. Moreover, his poniard sheath is empty. I marked all this as I stood by him a moment ago. This is the man who slew my lord.”
The servant’s heavy face showed that he understood her well enough now.
“To-night,” she said, almost skipping under the trees with the intensity of her malice, “it shall be with his own poniard. I have it here. Galerius, you have always been a good fellow.”
The man grinned.
“Keep silence and leave all to me. I shall need your hand and no more.”
“Nor shall he,” said Galerius curtly.
Morgan grew suddenly bleak and quiet, with the thought of murder harboured in her heart.