“O malefice! Unfaithful shepherd have I been to my sheep that such impiety should spring up in their hearts even as a wish! Have you no fear of God’s Judgment?”
But here the beer came, and Clement’s nose went into it. Ulrich was pulling his great carcass up into the chair and squinting round the room.
“The maid? where?” he demanded.
“The prisoner?” asked Michael, his vizier.
“The same;” and Ulrich’s eyes went over into a dark corner behind the fireplace, then his orders sounded sharp as a cracking lash.
“He! Franz-of-the-Ram’s-Pate, bring her this way.”
A great man-at-arms, whose strength lay in muscle not in wits, bestirred himself and dragged from the shelter a girl whose slender form seemed sinking from his hands as from the touch of flame. In the wavering torchlight few might look upon her face; yet that she was merest child one quick glance told, and all could have seen the evil grin of My Lord Baron as he surveyed her.
“So this is the prisoner?”
The girl, too scared or too brave for sobs, remained absolutely still. Ulrich continued his inquest.
“Had she no jewels nor rings?”