brave enough himself to honour the courage he had so mercilessly tried; her head sank as though the rebuke of Deity spoke by the rough soldier's mouth; she crouched with a low moan, like a stricken animal's, at the foot of the column where Erceldoune was bound.
He turned on her his strained and aching eyes.
"Why have you so much mercy on my body?"
There was an infinite reproach in the infinite patience of the wondering words. Why had she who had slain his soul, his spirít, his hope, all in him that made the living of his life of any peace, of any worth, thus have mercy on the mere torture of limb and nerve and sinew? Why did she who had been so pitiless, so wanton in her cruelty, feel compassion and contrition before the coarse, indifferent doom of merely physical pain?
The Calabrian looked at them in silence, then motioned to his men.
"Take them from the sun-glare, and bind them together."
In a sense he felt pity, because he felt the homage of courage to courage, for this man whom he had seen so loyal at such awful cost; but for her he had no emotion, save dread of her as a sorceress, save
