sneer. "Bertrand of Artois would be annoyed perhaps if I had a title
like his."

He advanced a step towards the bed, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

"Have mercy, Robert!" cried the queen, checking him: "I will do all you
ask."

And she signed the parchment naming him Count of Eboli.

"And now," Robert went on impudently, "to show that my new title is not
illusory, while you are busy about signing documents, let me have
the privilege of taking part in the councils of the crown: make a
declaration that, subject to your good pleasure, my mother and I are to
have a deliberative voice in the council whenever an important matter is
under discussion."

"Never!" cried Joan, turning pale. "Philippa and Robert, you abuse my
weakness and treat your queen shamefully. In the last few days I have
wept and suffered continually, overcome by a terrible grief; I have no
strength to turn to business now. Leave me, I beg: I feel my strength
gives way."

"What, my daughter," cried the Catanese hypocritically, "are you feeling
unwell? Come and lie down at once." And hurrying to the bed, she took
hold of the curtain that concealed the Count of Artois.

The queen uttered a piercing cry, and threw herself before Philippa with
the fury of a lioness. "Stop!" she cried in a choking voice; "take the
privilege you ask, and now, if you value your own life, leave me."