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Updated: May 29, 2025
He held in his hand like a service-book the great manuscript written in red, which he had been transcribing at Sybilla's entrance, and as he walked he chanted, with a strange intonation, words that thrilled the very soul of the young man listening.
At first she tried to win him back, not with a woman's sweet and placid dignity of love, never failing, never tiring, yet invisible as a rivulet that runs through deep green bushes, scarcely heard and never seen. Sybilla's arts the only arts she knew were the whole armoury of girlish coquetry, or childish wile, passionate tenderness and angry or sullen reproach, alternating each other.
The long gossiping visits of her thousand-and-one acquaintances subsided into frigid morning calls, at which the grim phantom of the husband frowned from a corner and suppressed all idle chatter. Sybilla's favourite system of killing time by half-hours in various idle ways, at home and abroad, was terminated at once.
But Angus, after a pause of deep and evidently conflicting thoughts, referred to the child. "She is ours still. I must not forget that. Shall I send for her again?" he said, as if he wished to soothe the mother's wounded feelings. Alas! in Sybilla's breast the fountain of mother's feeling was as yet all sealed. "Send for Olive!" she said, "oh no! Do not, I implore you.
And first to plunge into the heart of it at once tell us who was the mysterious lady with Mr. Parmalee?" The hour of Sybilla's triumph had come. She lifted her black eyes, glittering with livid flame, and shot a quick, sidelong glance at the prisoner. Awfully white, awfully calm, he sat like a man of stone, awaiting to hear what would cost him his life. "Who was she?" the lawyer repeated.
There was a dispute, too, on the succession to the crown of Jerusalem. Sybilla's death transferred her rights to her sister, Isabel, the wife of Conrade of Montferrat; but Guy de Lusignan refused to give up the title of King, and the Christians' camp was rent with disputes.
He saw instead as it had been the face of an angel cast out of heaven, or perhaps, rather, of a martyr who has passed through the torture chamber on her way to the place of burning. The sight stopped Sholto stricken and wavering. His anger fell from him like a cloak shed when the sun shines in his strength. The Lady Sybilla's face showed of no earthly paleness.
Surely, surely, this was Sybilla's disobedient day. She saw a forbidden book glimmering in old, gilded leather she saw its classic back turned mockingly toward her the whole allure of the volume was impudent, dog- eared, devil-may-care-who-reads-me. She took it out, replaced it, looked hard, hard for Henry, found him not, glanced sideways at the dog-eared one, took a step sideways.
The words were clear enough, but in a language not understood by Sholto MacKim. They seemed intelligible enough, however, to the Earl. "I knew it," he cried; "the false hounds have imprisoned her also. It is Sybilla's voice. God in heaven they are torturing her!" He ran to the door and shook it vehemently. "Ho! Without there!" he cried imperiously, as if in his own Castle at Thrieve.
The pretty Swiss clock played a waltz preparatory to striking eleven. She sat and listened until the last musical chime died away; then she rose, groped her way to the low, marble chimney-piece, struck a lucifer, and lighted a large lamp. The brilliant light flooded the room. Sybilla's rap came that same instant softly upon the door. "My lady." "I hear," my lady said, not opening it. "What is it?"
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