peech was like the
rustle of papers. "You did not love Zoraida. And so it came about
that upon Walburga's Eve, at midnight, Zoraida hanged herself beside
your doorway. Thus we love where I was born. . . . And I, I cut the
rope--with my left hand. I had my other arm about that frozen thing
which yesterday had been Zoraida, you understand, so that it might not
fall. And in the act a tear dropped from that dead woman's cheek and
wetted my forehead. Ice is not so cold as was that tear. . . . Ho,
that tear did not fall upon my forehead but on my heart, because I
loved that dancing-girl, Zoraida, as you do this princess here. I
think you will understand," Makrisi said, calmly as one who states a
maxim.

The Sire de Vaquieras replied, in the same tone: "I understand. You
have contrived my death?"

"Ey, messire, would that be adequate? I could have managed that any
hour within the last score of years. Oh no! for I have studied you
carefully. Oh no! instead, I have contrived this plight. For the
Prince of Orange is manifestly murdered. Who killed him?--why, Madona
Biatritz, and none other, for I will swear to it. I, I will swear to
it, who saw it done. Afterward both you and I must be questioned upon
the rack, as possibly concerned in the affair, and whether innocent or
guilty we must die very horribly. Such is the gentle custom of your
Christian country when a prince is murdered. That is not the point of
the jest, however. For first Sire Philibert will put this woman to the
Question by Water, until she confesses her confederates, until she
confesses that every baron whom Philibert distrusts was one of them.
Oh yes, assuredly they will thrust a hollow cane into the mouth of your
Biatritz, and they will pour water a little by a little through this
cane, until she confesses what they desire. Ha, Philibert will see to
this confession! And through this woman's torment he will rid himself
of every dangerous foe he has in Venaissin. You must stand by and wait
your turn. You must stand by, in fetters, and see this done--you, you,
my master!--you, who love this woman as I loved that dead Zoraida who
was not fair enough to please you!"

Raimbaut, trapped, impotent, cried out: "This is not possible----" And
for all that, he knew the Saracen to be foretelling the inevitable.

Makrisi went on, quietly: "After the Question men will parade her,
naked to the middle, through all Orange, until they reach the
Marke