"'Twas a strange knave," muttered Job as he followed his sister and her mistress on their way. "But, by the beard of the holy St Gildas! I had liefer meet two such than——" And the gallant Job crossed himself devoutly, though he did not complete his sentence.
CHAPTER IV
The shadows fell heavily in the great hall of the Château de Mereac. In one corner the fool Pierre had lain himself down on the rushes to sleep, clasping his smaller namesake to his narrow chest. By the empty hearth Gaspard de Mereac leant back in his great chair, half dozing after his hawking, the gay gerfalcon perched on the back of the seat, preening herself with stately grace, as one who would say, "See one who has proved her worth and won the praises of all who beheld her prowess." At their master's feet lay the wolf-hounds, Gloire and Reine, the former raising his stately head from time to time to softly lick the hand which hung over the oaken chair. A step coming hastily across the hall roused the lord of the castle into a sudden, irritated wakefulness, for well he knew it was not the gentle tread of his little Gwennola, but instead, as one sleepy glance told him, his nephew Guillaume de Coray. Something however, in the latter's disordered dress and pale face roused him from his dreams of gallant hawks and screaming herons to demand abruptly what had chanced.
"Chanced?" echoed de Coray vaguely. "Chanced, monsieur my uncle? Nay, naught hath chanced, but——" He paused, as if striving to collect a train of wandering thoughts, leaning his chin on his hand as he sat down on a bench opposite to his interrogator.
"Where hast been all day?" demanded de Mereac, stretching out his legs with a sleepy yawn and pausing to pat Gloire's faithful head as he raised himself in his seat. "Verily thou hast missed as fair a day's sport as I have had for many a day. De Plöernic rated not his fair Spaniard too highly after all. Seldom have I seen so straight a flight; but thou shalt judge for thyself on the morrow, for I have promised to take the little Gwennola with me, and thou, too, Guillaume, wilt doubtless accompany us?"
"Doubtless," replied the younger man, but his listless tone and moody face drew fresh inquiries from his uncle as to his day's doings. De Coray replied evasively, still preserving the same gloomy manner, whilst his knitted brow seemed to speak of perplexity and indecision.
"What ails thee, man?" cried de Mereac heartily, "thou art as gloomy as any fat abbot on a fast day. Say then, has my lady been flouting thee? A plague on the little rogue, she hath scarce been near me this day!"
De Coray glanced sideways towards his uncle, then downwards, whilst a sinister smile played round his mouth.
"Perchance the French knight's wounds have needed too much of my fair mistress's care," he said maliciously, noting with satisfaction how the shaft went home, from the old man's sudden start and angry frown. Then, dropping his hesitating manner, he leant forward, speaking slowly but emphatically. "Monsieur," he said softly, "it is in my mind that I should tell you clearly that which I alone have knowledge of; perchance you will blame me for not having spoken sooner, but knightly honour forbade me. Now, however, the necessity seemeth to me greater even than any false sense of magnanimity, seeing that we cross not swords with the viper, but rather crush him under heel before he does us mortal ill, and so——" He paused, to give perhaps greater weight to his words, narrowly watching the stern, set face opposite him, which seemed to have stiffened into an iron mask.
"Speak thy mind, man," demanded the old noble curtly. "If there is ill to tell, tell it me—the saints know I have borne such before—but cease to prate of that which is beside the purpose, as is the way with women and fools—not men."