"In good sooth! But, lady, I saw him not die."
"Mind you how the townsfolk bore him off with much care? Perchance Hubert of Provence aimed not o'er true with his quarrel--"
"He is but a sorry wight in many things, lady," put in Beatrice scornfully.
"And the leeches are possessed of marvellous skill, as thou well knowest, and Sir Ralph is young and strong--"
"Was young and strong, you mean, lady. O prithee, peace! Open not thus afresh a wound which bleeds, ay, and will bleed for ever!"
"My lady means what she says, and naught else," interrupted Beatrice, unable to restrain herself any longer. "He is young and strong, or beshrew me for a deaf old crone, for I trow his voice was strong enough this noontide!"
"His voice!" exclaimed Aliva, raising herself eagerly, and a faint colour overspreading her pallid cheek. "O Beatrice, mock me not!"
"Thou mockest thyself, daughter," said Lady Margaret, smiling. "Take heart o' grace. Beatrice speaks true; she hath heard him not many hours since."
And Beatrice, coming forward and falling at her lady's knees, poured forth her wonderful tale in a torrent of words.
When she paused for lack of breath, Aliva rose, like one waking from a dream, and clutched Beatrice's arm.