“Let me then wet it for you, Sainte-Maure,” Lanfranc asked of me, eager himself to do for an Italian.
I shook my head.
“Pasquini is mine,” I answered. “He shall be first to-morrow.”
“Are there others?” Lanfranc demanded.
“Ask de Goncourt,” I grinned. “I imagine he is already laying claim to the honour of being the third.”
At this, de Goncourt showed distressed acquiescence. Lanfranc looked inquiry at him, and de Goncourt nodded.
“And after him I doubt not comes the cockerel,” I went on.
And even as I spoke the red-haired Guy de Villehardouin, alone, strode to us across the moonlit grass.
“At least I shall have him,” Lanfranc cried, his voice almost wheedling, so great was his desire.
“Ask him,” I laughed, then turned to Pasquini. “To-morrow,” I said. “Do you name time and place, and I shall be there.”