"Woman, what have you done?" he asked again, and again she answered him defiantly, conscious of her backing, conscious of the neighborhood of Fernand Ximenes, conscious of the chivalry of the duke. "Justice," she answered again, "justice on my false lord, who sought to drug my senses on my wedding night that he might entertain his paramour." The duke stood instantly still, rigid as an image. "His paramour!" he echoed, glancing round the room, for to him, as to all the others, the only woman present was the Duchess of Esclaramonde herself, and by his son he only saw as all the others saw Simon the soldier of fortune and the young knight of Eleusis. The duke strode to where his son lay. "Is my son dead?" he asked. Argathona, kneeling by Rainouart's seeming lifeless body, whispered to Count Ernault that he was little hurt, although stunned by his fall, and would soon recover, and Count Ernault, turning to the duke, repeated her message. "Bear him to his chamber and summon my physician," the duke ordered, and in a moment the strong arms of the young prince's friends--Guy, Jaufre, Ambrose, and Raymond--lifted him unconscious from the floor and bore him to the adjoining room and laid him on the marriage bed. Then glaring round him with the face that all men feared who saw it so, Baldwin commanded: "Tell me what has happened?" Esclaramonde rose to her feet and pointed at Argathona, who was standing, now tranquil, with Simon by her side. "That is a woman," she cried. "That cup contains the wine of sleep. It was poured that I might drink it and might sleep while he gave his false love the kisses due to me. But I was warned and did not drink, and when this woman came I stabbed him in her arms to avenge my honor." Baldwin turned to Argathona. "Are you a woman?" he asked, with wonder in his drunken voice. Argathona answered him calmly: "I am no man, great duke." The duke clinched and unclinched his great fists. He was sobering rapidly in his rage. "Are you my son's lover?" he questioned. The dryad answered simply: "I love him as a maid should love her bachelor, true heart and true soul, and he loved me ere he was stolen from me." "Do not listen to her," Esclaramonde clamored; "she is a filthy witch and she has ensorcelled him." Duke Baldwin lifted up his hand to command silence. Drunk or sober he was the master here. Whatever had happened he was the judge. If his son had sinned his son should suffer, but it was for Baldwin of the Rock to sit in judgment. Some dim memory of an ancient tale of Brutus, a Roman, troubled his muddled mind. While Esclaramonde was speaking, Fernand Ximenes had moved a little nearer to her and lightly touched her on the arm with a touch that meant reassurance, a touch that convinced her of a friend. "Silence, lady," Baldwin ordered, not uncivilly; then he turned again to Argathona: "Boy, woman, witch," he demanded, "whatever you be, what is your story?"