Great was her wealth: a golden piece for
every ruddy strand that hung a shimmering mantle to her knee. Her
beauty--nay, men had slain themselves gladly to escape the torment
of her look. She stood in the curtained doorway, a heavy purple
hanging at her back; and the man who awaited her paled as he saw
her vengeful face.
It was Hilarius. He drew himself up to the full of his slender
height, and bowed.
Panting a little, the woman came towards him across the many-hued
marble floors; and, as she passed, a vase of great white lilies
caught in her draperies of cramoisie and fell. She gave no heed,
but swept on, and faced him in the sunny silence. Across the pause
the Angelus sounded from a church hard by: Hilarius crossed
himself devoutly; and the stillness fled before a woman's scornful
laugh.
"Nay, then, Signor," she cried mockingly, "is ours to be a war of
signs and silence? I have heard thy lips were ready enough with
judgment, though they halt at a love-phrase. By Our Lady, if all
that is said of thee be true, I will e'en have thee whipped at the
gibbet for thy gibes! Speak, fool, while thy tongue is left thee;
'tis a last asking.
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