At that her laughter rang. shrill through the chamber. "These poor
shavelings?" she questioned.

"Just these poor shavelings, madame," he answered, and he raised
his hand again and made a sign. And then an odd thing happened,
and it struck a real terror into the heart of the Marquise and
heightened that which was already afflicting her fat lover,
Tressan.

The monks drew themselves erect. It was as if a sudden gust of
wind had swept through their ranks and set them all in motion.
Cowls fell back and habits were swept aside, and where twenty monks
had stood, there were standing now a score of nimble, stalwart men
in the livery of Condillac, all fully armed, all grinning in
enjoyment of her and Tressan's dismay.

One of them turned aside and locked the door of the chamber. But
his movement went unheeded by the Dowager, whose beautiful eyes,
starting with horror, were now back upon the grim figure of the
Abbot, marvelling almost to see no transformation wrought in him.

"Treachery!" she breathed, in an awful voice, that was no louder
than a whisper, and again her eyes travelled round the company,
and suddenly they fastened upon Fortunio, standing six paces from
her to the right, pulling thoughtfully at his mustachios, and
manifesting no surprise at what had taken place.

In a sudden, blind choler, she swept round, plucked the dagger from
Tressan's belt and flung herself upon the treacherous captain. He
had betrayed her in some way; he had delivered up Condillac - into