Joan turned a tearful look upon her lover.

“God, my God!” she cried, clasping her hands in desperation, “am I to hear for ever this awful cry of death!  You too, Bertrand, you too say the word, like Robert of Cabane, like Charles of Duras?  Wretched man, why would you raise this bloody spectre between us, to check with icy hand our adulterous kisses?  Enough of such crimes; if his wretched ambition makes him long to reign, let him be king:  what matters his power to me, if he leaves me with your love?”

“It is not so sure that our love will last much longer.”

“What is this, Bertrand?  You rejoice in this merciless torture.”

“I tell you, madam, that the King of Naples has a black flag ready, and on the day of his coronation it will be carried before him.”

“And you believe,” said Joan, pale as a corpse in its shroud, “—­you believe that this flag is a threat?”

“Ay, and the threat begins to be put in execution.”

The queen staggered, and leaned against a table to save herself from falling.

“Tell me all,” she cried in a choking voice; “fear not to shock me; see, I am not trembling.  O Bertrand, I entreat you!”

“The traitors have begun with the man you most esteemed, the wisest counsellor of the crown, the best of magistrates, the noblest-hearted, most rigidly virtuous——­”

“Andrea of Isernia!”

“Madam, he is no more.”

Joan uttered a cry, as though the noble old man had been slain before her eyes:  she respected him as a father; then, sinking back, she remained profoundly silent.

“How did they kill him?” she asked at last, fixing her great eyes in terror on the count.

“Yesterday evening, as he left this castle, on the way to his own home, a man suddenly sprang out upon him before the Porta Petruccia:  it was one of Andre’s favourites, Conrad of Gottis chosen no doubt because he had a grievance against the incorruptible magistrate on account of some sentence passed against him, and the murder would therefore be put down to motives of private revenge.  The cowardly wretch gave a sign to two or three companions, who surrounded the victim and robbed him of all means of escape.  The poor old man looked fixedly at his assassin, and asked him what he wanted.  ’I want you to lose your life at my hands, as I lost my case at yours!’ cried the murderer, and leaving him no time to answer, he ran him through with his sword.  Then the rest fell upon the poor man, who did not even try to call for help, and his body was riddled with wounds and horribly mutilated, and then left bathed in its blood.”

“Terrible!” murmured the queen, covering her face.

“It was only their first effort; the proscription lists are already full:  Andre must needs have blood to celebrate his accession to the throne of Naples.  And do you know, Joan, whose name stands first in the doomed list?”