"I don't understand," said the Governor's daughter coldly.
Muttering and chuckling, the woman did not seem to hear; had started to hobble on, when abruptly the girl stopped her.
"Where do you live?"
"There!" A claw-like finger pointed. "On the old Seigneur's lands—a little distance from the woods—"
"The old Seigneur? You knew him?"
"Knew him! Who better?" The whitened head wagged. "And the Black Seigneur? Wasn't he left, as a child, with me, when the old Seigneur went to America? And," pursing her thin lips, "didn't I care for him, and bring him up as one of my own?"
"But I thought—I heard that he, the Black Seigneur, when a boy, lived in the woods."
"That," answered the old creature, "was after. After the years he lived with us and shared our all! Not that we begrudged—no, no! Nor he! For once when I sent word, pleading our need, that we were starving, he forgave—I mean, remembered me—all I had done and," in a wheedling voice, "sent money—money—"
"He did?" Swiftly the girl reached for her own purse, only to discover she had forgotten to bring one. "But of course," in a tone of disappointment at her oversight, "he couldn't very well forget or desert one who had so generously befriended him."
"There are those now among his friends he must needs desert," the crone cackled, wagging her head.