She produced what had been the stirrup-shoe of a count or duke in the days when such things were. It was a sort of wooden-soled slipper, with a sole of wood, and heel and toecaps of cuir-bouilli. The great silver bosses and brackets had long since been wrenched from it. The last user had fixed it to his leathers with wire. The design on the cuir-bouilli was of a coat-of-arms, but eaten away by ants and green with mould.
“See now,” she said, fitting it to his foot, “a shoe for a count or duke. You shall walk the better for it. It is a shoe such as might have been made for you.”
Her hand rested for an instant on Sard’s pocket, from which a draggled silk handkerchief hung.
“Dios mio,” she said, “you are count or duke. It is so soft. This is silk of the countess.”
She fingered it with a child’s delight in the texture. “Is it all like this?” she said. “Truly, if you are not count or duke, you are servant to one.”
“That’s more like it,” Sard said, rising, so as to tread upon the shoe. “I’m a servant, to a limited company. Your shoe, señora, is as water to one dying in the desert. You have been a friend to me in time of need. You know the wise saying, ‘a friend to the beggars will never lack guests.’ I say, ‘May a host to a beggar never lack friends.’ ”
“The good Jesu comes in all shapes,” she answered. “And you are not a beggar, but very much a caballero; oh, very, very much a duke or count. You are English. They say that the English are as ice, and therefore come hither to be thawed.”
“That is partly true, señora. I have been melted by your kindness.”
“It is also said (though this I do not believe) that no Englishman will kiss a woman to whom he has not been married by the priest.”
“That is assuredly true, señora.”