he murmured. He bowed ironically in Claude's direction. "The gentleman passes beyond the jurisdiction of the court," he said. "She will have none of him, it seems; nor we either! He is dismissed." Claude, his eyes burning, shrugged his shoulders and did not budge. If they thought to rid themselves of him by this fooling they would learn their mistake. They wished him to go: the greater reason he should stay. A little thing--the sight of a small brown hand twitching painfully, while her face and all the rest of her was still and impassive, had expelled his doubts for the time--had driven all but love and pity and burning indignation from his breast. All but these, and the memory of her lesson and her will. He had promised and he must suffer. Whether Basterga was deceived by his inaction, or of set purpose was minded to try how far they could go with him, the big man turned again to his victim. "With you, my girl," he said, "it is otherwise. The soup was bad, and you are mutinous. Two faults that must be paid for. There was something of this, I remember, when Tissot--our good Tissot, who amused us so much--first came. And we tamed you then. You paid forfeit, I think. You kissed Tissot, I think; or Tissot kissed you." "No, it was I kissed her," Gentilis said with a smirk. "She chose me." "Under compulsion," Basterga retorted drily. "Will you ransom her again?" "Willingly! But it should be two this time," Gentilis said grinning. "Being for the second offence, a double----" "Pain," quoth Basterga. "Very good. Do you hear, my girl? Go to Gentilis, and see you let him kiss you twice! And see we see and hear it. And have a care! Have a care! Or next time your modesty may not escape so easily! To him at once, and----" "No!" The cry came from Claude. He was on his feet, his face on fire. "No!" he repeated passionately. "No?" "Not while I am here! Not under compulsion," the young man cried. "Shame on you!" He turned to the others, generous wrath in his face. "Shame on you to torture a woman so--a woman alone! And you three to one!" Basterga's face grew dark. "You are right! We are three," he muttered, his hand slowly seeking a weapon in the corner behind him. "You speak truth there, we are three--to one! And----" "You maybe twenty, I will not suffer it!" the lad cried gallantly. "You may be a hundred----" But on that word, in the full tide of speech he stopped. His voice died as suddenly as it had been raised, he stammered, his whole bearing changed. He had met her eyes: he had read in them reproach, warning, rebuke. Too late he had remembered his promise. The big man leaned forward. "What may we be?" he asked. "You were going, I think, to say that we might be--that we might be----"