She lay back on the pillows in a deathly faintness, her face drained of blood.

Only her tortured eyes showed that life was still in her.
Her voice came at last, no louder than a whisper.

It was soft now, but more terrible than the old harshness.
"I follow Philip," it said.

"Sic transit gloria....

Call me Arnulf the goldsmith and Robert the scrivener....