But his eyes! They were cunning and trustless, narrow- slitted and heavy-lidded, at one and the same time as sharp as a ferret's and as indolent as a basking lizard's.
"There has been much delay, Count de Sainte-Maure," he began promptly, when Pons had left the room at a glance from me.

"He whom I serve grows impatient." "Change your tune, priest," I broke in angrily.

"Remember, you are not now in Rome." "My august master--" he began.
"Rules augustly in Rome, mayhap," I again interrupted.

"This is France." Martinelli shrugged his shoulders meekly and patiently, but his eyes, gleaming like a basilisk's, gave his shoulders the lie.
"My august master has some concern with the doings of France," he said quietly.

"The lady is not for you.