Through the heavy boom of the storm without, the thresh of the rain
upon the lattice casement, and the irregular whipping gusts which
shook the house, the soft wheeze of the engrossing quill could be
heard, the crackle of the burning logs and the heavy regular breathing
of the couchant she-wolf being the only other sounds audible within
the apartment.
Gilles de Retz wrote on, smiling to himself as he added line after
line to his manuscript. His beard shone with a truculent blue-black
lustre. For the moment the aged look had quite gone out of his face.
His cheek appeared flushed with the hues of youth and reinvigorated
hope, yet withal of a youth without innocence or charm. Rather it
seemed as if fresh blood had been injected into the veins of some aged
demon, moribund and cruel, giving, instead of health or grace, only a
new lease of cruelty and lust.
Presently another door opened, the main entrance of the apartment this
time, not the small private portal through which Astarte the wolf had
been admitted. A girl came in, thrusting aside the curtain, and, for
the space of a moment, holding it outstretched with an arm gowned in
pure white before dropping it with a rustle of heavy silken fabric
upon the ground.
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