‘You are a fool,’ returned the other.  ’They seek only their meat.  But you and I, and our like, seek nicer things than that.  We have our souls to feed; and the soul of a man is a free eater, of stranger appetite than a shark.’

The Marquess looked at the flies.  ’O God, Arabian, let us go away from this place!  Is there no rest from the flies?

‘None at all,’ said the Arabian; ’for thousands have been slain here; and the flies also must be fed.’

‘Pah, horrible!’ said the Marquess, all in a sweat.  The Arabian turned; but his face was hidden, with a horrible appearance, as if a hooded cloak stood up by itself and a voice proceeded from a fleshless garb.  ‘You, Marquess of Montferrat,’ it said, ’what do you want with me by the Tower of Flies?’

The Marquess remembered his needs.  ‘I want the death of a man,’ he said; ‘but not here, O Christ.’

‘Who sent you?’ asked the Arabian.

’The Sheik Moffadin, a captive, in the name of Ali, and of Abdallah, servant of Ali.’  So the Marquess, and would have kissed the man, but that he saw no face under the hood, and dared not kiss emptiness.

‘Come with me,’ said the Arabian.

* * * * *

An hour later the Marquess came into the Tower of Flies, shaking.  He found Saint-Pol there, the Archduke of Austria, and Gilles de Gurdun.  There were no greetings.

‘Where is your man, Marquess?’ asked Saint-Pol of the pale Italian.

‘He is out yonder looking at the sharks,’ said the Marquess, in a whisper; ‘but he will serve us if we dare use him.’  He struck at the flies weaving about his head.  ‘This is a horrible place, Saint-Pol,’ he said, staring.  Saint-Pol shrugged.

‘The deed we compass, dear Marquess, is none of the choicest, remember,’ said he.  The Marquess then saw that Austria’s broad leather back was covered with flies.  This quickened his loathing.

‘By our Saviour,’ he said, ’one must hate a man very much to talk against him here.’

‘Do you hate enough?’ asked Saint-Pol.

The Marquess stared about him.  He saw the Archduke peacefully twiddle his thumbs.  He saw De Gurdun, who stood moodily, looking at the floor.

‘Oh, content you,’ Saint-Pol answered him.  ’That man hates more than you or I. And with more reason.’

‘What are your reasons, Eustace?’ asked Montferrat, still in a whisper.

‘I hate him,’ said Saint-Pol, ’for my brother’s sake, whose back he broke; for my sister’s sake, whose heart he must break before he has done with her; for my house’s sake, to which (in Eudo’s person) he gave the lie; because he is of Anjou, cruel as a cat and savage as a dog; because he is a ruthless, swift, treacherous, secret, unconscionable beast.  Are these enough reasons for you?’

‘By God, Eustace,’ said the breathless Montferrat, ’I cannot think it.  Not here!’