sword. But they saw that the burden of choice was laid on her;
there, in her sight and in theirs, rose the gibbet; and, clowns as they
were, they discerned the tragedy of her _role_, play it as she might, and
though her act gave life to her lover.

When all had retired save three or four, she turned and saw these
gathered at the head of the stairs in a ring about Carlat, who was
addressing them in a low eager voice. She could not catch a syllable,
but a look hard and almost cruel flashed into her eyes as she gazed; and
raising her voice she called the steward to her.

"The bridge is up," she said, her tone hard, "but the gates? Are they
locked?"

"Yes, Madame."

"The wicket?"

"No, not the wicket." And Carlat looked another way.

"Then go, lock it, and bring the keys to me!" she replied. "Or stay!"
Her voice grew harder, her eyes spiteful as a cat's. "Stay, and be
warned that you play me no tricks! Do you hear? Do you understand? Or
old as you are, and long as you have served us, I will have you thrown
from this tower, with as little pity as Isabeau flung her gallants to the
fishes. I am still mistress here, never more mistress than this day. Woe
to you if you forget it."

He blenched and cringed before her, muttering incoherently.

"I know," she said, "I read you! And now the keys. Go, bring them to
me! And if by chance I find the wicket unlocked when I come down, pray,
Carlat, pray! For you will have need of prayers."

He slunk away, the men with him; and she fell to pacing the roof
feverishly. Now and then she extended her arms, and low cries broke from
her, as from a dumb creature in pain. Wherever she looked, old memories
rose up to torment her and redouble her misery. A thing she could have
borne in the outer world, a thing which might have seemed tolerable in
the reeking air of Paris or in the gloomy streets of Angers wore here its
most appalling aspect. Henceforth, whatever choice she made, this home,
where even in those troublous times she had known naught but peace, must
bear a damning stain! Henceforth this day and this hour must come
between her and happiness, must brand her brow, and fix her with a deed
of which men and women would tell while she lived! Oh, God--pray? Who
said, pray?

"I!" And La Tribe with tears in his eyes held out the keys to her. "I,
Madame," he continued solemnly, his voice broken with emotion. "For in
man is no help. The strongest man, he who rode