“You are mistaken, Sirrah; you cannot have seen me!” cried De Noailles.
“Truth only will avail you,” said the Prince to the prisoner. “What passed between you and his excellency?”
“Not a word—not a look. I do not think he even noticed me,” rejoined Carver.
“But there were others with you whom he did notice?” said the Prince. “Trifle not with me. It imports me to know who they were, and what occurred.”
“The villain’s statement respecting me is utterly false,” cried De Noailles. “I did not stir from my lodgings last night.”
“Your excellency must needs be in error there,” remarked Rodomont, “since you were seen and recognised in the High Street, about half an hour before this murtherous attack took place, thus allowing ample time for its concoction. Moreover, this letter found on the body of the ruffian slain by the Prince, may serve to prove your share in the dark transaction.”
“I deny the charge altogether,” cried De Noailles. “’Tis a device of my enemies. When the matter is regularly investigated, and before a competent tribunal, I can easily clear myself.”
“Justice shall be done you, Sir, of that you need not doubt,” said Philip, sternly. “As to you, fellow,” he added to the prisoner, “little as you deserve it, you shall have a pardon. But understand. You owe life and freedom to Mistress Constance Tyrrell—not to me.”
“Are no conditions annexed to the pardon?” inquired Derrick Carver.
“None; it is unconditional,” replied the Prince. “Here is her Majesty’s order,” he added, giving Rodomont the paper, signed by the abbess. “Are you content?” he added to Constance, who had approached at the moment.