The blood had forsaken even her lips.

Her face was the face of a statue--white, beautiful, lifeless.
"I think not," he said gravely.

"Be seated, and let us hope for the best.

And you, sir," he continued, turning to Carlat, "serve your mistress with wine.

She needs it." The steward filled for her, and then for each of the men, his shaking hand spilling as much as it poured.