Her look flashed across to him, comprehended his action, and laughed open triumph.  Then with a suddenness almost too swift to follow, she turned to a man who had entered behind her and softly spoke.

Saltash’s eyes went to the man, and he drew a low whistle between his teeth.  It was well known that Rozelle Daubeni never travelled without an escort; but this man—­this man—­He was tall and broad, and he carried himself with a supreme contempt for his fellow-men.  He did not look at Saltash, did not apparently even see the hushed crowd that hung upon every movement of that wonderful woman-creature who took the world by storm wherever she went.

He was superbly indifferent to his surroundings, gazing straight before him with the eyes of a Viking who searches the far horizon.  He walked with the free swing of a pirate.  And as the woman turned her dazzling face towards him, it was plain to all that she saw none but him in that vast and crowded place.

He was by her side as they moved forward, and they saw her lightly touch his arm, with an intimate gesture, as though they were alone.  Then the whole throng broke into acclamations, and the spell was broken.  She saw them all again, and laughed her gracious thanks.  The great hall rang with their greeting as she passed through, but no one sought to detain her and she did not pause.

Later, she would give them all they desired, but her moment had not arrived.  So she went on to the great curving staircase, side by side with her fair-bearded Viking, still laughing like a happy child who looks for the morrow.

As she rounded the curve of the stair, she snatched a red rose from her breast and threw it down to her worshippers below.  It was aimed at Saltash, but it fell before Spentoli, and he caught and held it with wild adoration leaping in his eyes.  As he pressed it to his lips, he was sobbing.

“Mon ami,” said Saltash’s voice behind him, maliciously humorous, “you have stolen my property.  But—­since I have no use for it—­you may keep it.”

Spentoli looked at him with burning eyes.  “Ah!  You may laugh!” he said, in a fierce undertone.  “You are—­without a soul.”

“Isn’t it better to laugh?” queried Saltash.  “Did you expect a blow in the face?”

Spentoli glared for a moment, and recovered himself.  “Do you know what they are saying of her?” he said.  “They say that she is dying.  But it is not true—­not true!  Such beauty as that—­such loveliness—­could never die!”

The cynical lines in Saltash’s face deepened very perceptibly.  He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

“Who is the man with her?” demanded Spentoli.  “I have never seen him before—­the man with the face of a Dane.  Do you know him?”

“Yes, I know him,” said Saltash.

“Then who is he?  Some new lover?” There was suppressed eagerness in the question.  Spentoli’s eyes were smouldering again.