It was this one man's cry that brought death and desolation to the
murderers' hearts, and the people dispersed about the town, shrieking,
"Vengeance, vengeance!"

Divine justice, which knows naught of privilege and respects no crown,
struck Joan first of all in her love. When the two lovers first met,
both were seized alike with terror and disgust; they recoiled trembling,
the queen seeing in Bertrand her husband's executioner, and he in her
the cause of his crime, possibly of his speedy punishment. Bertrand's
looks were disordered, his cheeks hollow, his eyes encircled with black
rings, his mouth horribly distorted; his arm and forefinger extended
towards his accomplice, he seemed to behold a frightful vision rising
before him. The same cord he had used when he strangled Andre, he now
saw round the queen's neck, so tight that it made its way into her
flesh: an invisible force, a Satanic impulse, urged him to strangle with
his own hands the woman he had loved so dearly, had at one time
adored on his knees. The count rushed out of the room with gestures of
desperation, muttering incoherent words; and as he shewed plain signs
of mental aberration, his father, Charles of Artois, took him away, and
they went that same evening to their palace of St. Agatha, and there
prepared a defence in case they should be attacked.

But Joan's punishment, which was destined to be slow as well as
dreadful, to last thirty-seven years and end in a ghastly death, was now
only beginning. All the wretched beings who were stained with Andre's
death came in turn to her to demand the price of blood. The Catanese
and her son, who held in their hands not only the queen's honour but her
life, now became doubly greedy and exacting. Dona Cancha no longer put
any bridle on her licentiousness, and the Empress of Constantinople
ordered her niece to marry her eldest son, Robert, Prince of Tarentum.