At last her lips parted, and although she scarcely seemed to raise her voice above a whisper, the word uttered reached my ears across the stillness of the great room, and the word was "Lazzaro!" At mention of my name, and at the tone in which it was uttered--a tone that betrayed same measure of what was in her heart--Ramiro wheeled sharply in my direction, his brows wrinkling.

A certain craftiness he had, for all that I ever accounted him the dullest-witted clod that ever rose to his degree of honour.

He must have realised how expedient it was that in all he did he should present himself to Madonna in a favourite light.
"Release him," he bade the executioners that held me, and in an instant I was set free.

The order given, he turned again to Madonna.
"You have been torturing him," she cried, and her words were hard and fierce, her eyes blazing.

"You shall repent it, Ser Ramiro.