“As for you,” cried she, “march!”
The outflung gesture that accompanied the words seemed to cow the thieving strumpet.
As the girl slunk away, cursing “French Joan and her tantrums,” yet in evident awe of her, the newcomer put forth her hand and touched the Vidame’s wrist.
Looking at her, dazed, he recognised Laperrière’s black-browed sister: a strange, sinister figure of uncertain age, and with sullen remains of what must have been great beauty, who was wont to sit moodily stitching in the little antechamber to the fencing master’s room. She had never a word for him as he passed daily to and fro, but a long, deep look: the same look was now plunging into his eyes. Having gained his attention, she dropped her hand from his and, folding her arms with a gesture of some dignity, began, in French, low-voiced and rapid:—
“Hate! Hatred! Oh, la haine…! I have known it, my young lord! But nothing my brother can teach or do will help you here! What use is the sword and the skill of it against him who will not fight?”
Enguerrand stared at her. Then into his fixed glance of despair sprang a sudden kindling flash, in response to the strong, devouring gaze that still held his.
“You cursed too loud, mon joli seigneur. Oh, too loud…! When one wants revenge, one must be silent!”
“Revenge…!” echoed Enguerrand, with such a cry as a despairing lover might give as he echoed his mistress’s call.
“Hush!” said she whom Alsatia called French Joan, two brown fingers on her lips.