She bent forward, lowering her voice still more, although the mocking rabble that pressed about them, only kept at bay by her hard and watchful eyes, could have made nothing of her foreign speech:— “Yet you spoke well,” she went on. “‘May the wine-cup poison you!—May the pest follow you and break out under your footsteps…!’ A man may find that in his cup which will give him quick passage … as quick and quicker than the pest, believe me. He might have drunk, and the wine have lain as pleasant on his tongue as ever; and, lo!—before he can call for his second draught the pest, it seems, has stilled his heart—or so will every one say in these days: swooning, mortal sweat and burning fire, death, all within the hour.… The pest, indeed, all who had seen it would swear. Not a sign lacking: except that it strikes so quick, so quick—no time for remedies! And yet ’tis not the pest. It holds within a small thimble. _He, mon joli seigneur._ A treasure for those who understand hate. My brother brought back his best sword-passes from Italy—I brought back better … the _acquetta_ … eh, my pretty lord? The _Tofana_ drops, for them you hate…! You may trust me … they have been tried: else, maybe, we should not be here … and your luck would thereby be the less. If fate gave you the chance of mixing such a cup for the one you curse, what would you give to fate?” “All I possess,” whispered the Vidame, hotly. “Anything she asked!” Again the deep, inscrutable eyes brooded upon him. Then French Joan showed her white teeth in a smile that gave a kind of lurid beauty to her dark face. “Well, we shall see,” she said; “maybe I shall ask much, maybe I shall ask little.… Give me your hand, my pretty gentleman,” she cried, raising her voice into sonorousness again, and speaking in broken English: “I will lead you back to my brother’s. I have a cordial for such weakness.—Lean on me!” Jeers and shouts responded from the greasy steps. “Lean on French Joan, Master Frenchman! French Joan has a cordial for weak gentlemen!” “Marry!” cried the girl who had stolen the kerchief, “will he come out alive again, think ye, masters?” “Rather him than me, with French Joan!” roared the youngest ruffler, clapping his arms around her waist. II THE VENETIAN GLASS “Little Satan,” said Charles, “a plague on all women, I say!” The King’s page started from the gloomy muse in which he had been gazing out of the window recess of the royal room in Whitehall, at the flowing tide below. “Amen—your Majesty!” he answered, with an attempt at sprightliness, the impotence of which brought a frown to the discontented face turned upon him. “As the times go, your Majesty’s wish carries the charm of possibility.… If all one hears be true, the plague hath taken already not a few—”