* * *

An hour later the Marquess came into the Tower of Flies, shaking. He
found Saint-Pol there, the Archduke of Austria, and Gilles de Gurdun.
There were no greetings.

'Where is your man, Marquess?' asked Saint-Pol of the pale Italian.

'He is out yonder looking at the sharks,' said the Marquess, in a
whisper; 'but he will serve us if we dare use him.' He struck at the
flies weaving about his head. 'This is a horrible place, Saint-Pol,' he
said, staring. Saint-Pol shrugged.

'The deed we compass, dear Marquess, is none of the choicest, remember,'
said he. The Marquess then saw that Austria's broad leather back was
covered with flies. This quickened his loathing.

'By our Saviour,' he said, 'one must hate a man very much to talk
against him here.'

'Do you hate enough?' asked Saint-Pol.

The Marquess stared about him. He saw the Archduke peacefully twiddle
his thumbs. He saw De Gurdun, who stood moodily, looking at the floor.

'Oh, content you,' Saint-Pol answered him. 'That man hates more than you
or I. And with more reason.'

'What are your reasons, Eustace?' asked Montferrat, still in a whisper.

'I hate him,' said Saint-Pol, 'for my brother's sake, whose back he
broke; for my sister's sake, whose heart he must break before he has
done with her; for my house's sake, to which (in Eudo's person) he gave
the lie; because he is of Anjou, cruel as a cat and savage as a dog;
because he is a ruthless, swift, treacherous, secret, unconscionable
beast. Are these enough reasons for you?'

'By God, Eustace,' said the breathless Montferrat, 'I cannot think it.
Not here!'

'Then,' said Saint-Pol, 'I hate him for Berengere's sweet sake. That is
a good and clean hatred, I believe. That wasted lady, writhing white on
a bed, moved me to pure pity. If I loved her before I will love her now
with whole service, not daring belie my knighthood. I love that queen
and intend to serve her. I have never seen such pitiful beauty before.
What! Is the man insatiate? Shall he have everything? He shall have
nothing. That will serve for me, I hope. Now, Marquess, it is your
turn.'

The Marquess struck out at the flies. 'I hate him,' he said, 'because,
before the King of France, he called me a liar and threatened me with
ignominious death.' He gasped here, and looked round him to see what
effect he had made. Saint-Pol's eyes (green-grey like his sister's) were
upon him, rather coldly; Gurdun's on the floor still. The A