“Oh, then the burgomaster knows something?” said Catherine sharply.
“Likely. Who else should?”
“I'll ask him.”
“I would.”
“And tell him you say he knows.”
“That is right, dame. Go make him mine enemy. That is what a poor fellow always gets if he says a word to you women.”
And Jorian from that moment shrunk in and became impenetrable as a hedgehog, and almost as prickly.
His conduct caused both the poor women agonies of mind, alarm, and irritated curiosity. Ghysbrecht was for some cause Gerard's mortal enemy; had stopped his marriage, imprisoned him, hunted him. And here was his late servant, who when off his guard had hinted that this enemy had the clue to Gerard's silence. After sifting Jorian's every word and look, all remained dark and mysterious. Then Catherine told Margaret to go herself to him. “You are young, you are fair. You will maybe get more out of him than I could.”
The conjecture was a reasonable one.
Margaret went with her child in her arms and tapped timidly at Jorian's door just before sunset. “Come in,” said a sturdy voice. She entered, and there sat Jorian by the fireside. At sight of her he rose, snorted, and burst out of the house. “Is that for me, wife?” inquired Margaret, turning very red.