Now beholding this, Genevra's red lips quivered roguishly, and she bowed her little, shapely head:
"Indeed, my lord, 'tis mine!" said she.
"Then pray you, who was she did wear it yesterday—?"
"Aye, messire, 'twas yesterday I—missed it, wilt not give it me therefore? One shoe can avail thee nothing and—and 'tis too small for thee to wear methinks—"
"Did she—she that lost this yesterday, send thee to-day in her stead?"
"Wilt not give a poor maid her shoe again, messire?"
"O Genevra, beseech thee, who was she did wear it yesterday—speak!"
"Nay, this—this I may not tell thee, lord Beltane."
"And wherefore?"
"For that I did so promise—and yet—what seek you of her, my lord?"