Lycabetta, seeing how Hildebrand paused for a moment in his advance upon Perpetua, stung him with a sneer.
"Lord Hildebrand, for a lover of ladies you are at a loss. She clings to her cripple."
Hildebrand, irritated, made a step forward, and again Perpetua moved a step away. Hildebrand frowned, accustomed to conquest.
"You shun me, child," he protested, "as if I had the plague."
At those words the booming bells ceased, the babbling voices ceased; Robert's darkness became light; an inspiration told him what to do. He sprang to his feet and advanced towards Hildebrand, barring his way to Perpetua. With outstretched palms, with cringing shoulders, he appealed to Hildebrand, to Lycabetta.
"Sweet lord, sweet lady, I entreat a sweet word with you."
Perpetua, who had lifted her hand to clasp the handle of the knife, let it fall again. Hildebrand, who had forgotten the fool's existence, scowled and snarled at him.
Lycabetta shook with mirth. "You forget, my lord," she suggested, "that it is the King who addresses you."
"I'll wring his majesty's neck," Hildebrand answered, savagely, "if he vexes me further."
"Nay, if he vexes you, there be others for that task," and Lycabetta struck sharply with a golden hammer upon a golden gong. Immediately the curtains parted and Zal and Rustum entered. At their heels came several of Lycabetta's women, wondering at the summons.
The black slaves descended the steps. Robert turned a mocking, mouthing face towards Lycabetta.
"Wait, wait," he said; "I have a tale to tell that should divert you much."
Something in the fool's fantastic manner, in his grotesque attitude, in his promise of diversion, took Lycabetta's fitful fancy. She held up a hand and the slaves halted. Robert, who had edged a little nearer to where Perpetua stood, wondering what strange purpose urged the fool, was making singular gestures with his hands, as one inviting, even commanding attention.
"Listen," he said, and his voice had a strange sound in it of defiance, of dominion, of frightful triumph, that jarred horridly on his hearers. "It was cold on the hills to-night and the wind chilled me. By the road-side near the city's gate I found one who slept or seemed to sleep. Wait, wait, my tale is wonderful and worth your patience. The sleeper was wrapped in a great mantle. Why should he lie snug while I shivered? I would have killed him sleeping to steal his cloak, but I was spared the pains, for as I twitched at a corner of it the fellow rolled in a lump before me and lay there dead. Wait, wait, your patience shall not be strained to breaking, and my adventure is good hearing. My man lay on his back in the moonlight, staring stupidly, and I who looked saw that his face was drawn and twisted, as if he had died in great pain; his teeth were dropping from their livid gums and his skin was stained and mottled and discolored, blue and black and green, and he seemed to rot as I watched him. But I was cold and I fear nothing, being a fool, so I went my ways, warm in his mantle. What do I care for the plague?"