He was a northern man, a stranger, a man of the sword, who had seized her--so they heard--by the sword.

But they saw that the burden of choice was laid on her; there, in her sight and in theirs, rose the gibbet; and, clowns as they were, they discerned the tragedy of her _role_, play it as she might, and though her act gave life to her lover.
When all had retired save three or four, she turned and saw these gathered at the head of the stairs in a ring about Carlat, who was addressing them in a low eager voice.

She could not catch a syllable, but a look hard and almost cruel flashed into her eyes as she gazed; and raising her voice she called the steward to her.
"The bridge is up," she said, her tone hard, "but the gates?
Are they locked ?" "Yes, Madame." "The wicket ?" "No, not the wicket." And Carlat looked another way.
"Then go, lock it, and bring the keys to me!" she replied.

"Or stay!" Her voice grew harder, her eyes spiteful as a cat's.

"Stay, and be warned that you play me no tricks! Do you hear?
Do you understand?
Or old as you are, and long as you have served us, I will have you thrown from this tower, with as little pity as Isabeau flung her gallants to the fishes.