A river ran in front of the old Château de Mereac, with orchards and gardens sloping down to the water's edge, and it was here that, that June morning, walked the Demoiselle de Mereac with an attendant maiden, both, it would seem, intent on their devotions, seeing that they raised not their heads from their livres d'heures even when a man's shadow crossed the path of the young châtelaine. But when the shadow became stationary substance, she was fain to look up, though with a frown on her smooth white brow, and a most decidedly unfriendly glance in her blue eyes. The accompanying maiden discreetly withdrew to the distance as the cavalier made his obeisance before the lady.
"I crave thy pardon, sweet mistress," he observed, smiling, "for disturbing thy devotions. Methought I heard the very rustle of angels' wings on the air as I approached."
The Demoiselle de Mereac drew herself up stiffly, facing him with flashing eyes.
"You do well, monsieur," she retorted coldly, "to observe that they departed on your arrival."
Guillaume de Coray shrugged his shoulders.
"Nay, sweet," he observed coolly, "I came not to discourse on angels, though I ventured to intrude upon one, but rather because I would fain speak with you anent the stranger who lies so sorely sick yonder," and he pointed towards the château.
"My father, monsieur," replied Gwennola haughtily, "would, methinks, best reply to any questions concerning Monsieur d'Estrailles. Doubtless he has already informed you," she added scornfully, "that he is satisfied that he is no spy, this French knight, but a noble gentleman of the train of the Count Dunois."
"So I have heard," retorted her kinsman. "But it is also my habit, sweet mistress, to believe little that is not proved. Moreover, I am well assured that this fellow has less right than you dream of to your father's mercy. Were I," he added in a low, menacing tone, "to tell him all I knew, the nearest branch and short shrift would be the hospitality extended to him by the Sieur de Mereac."
"Indeed, monsieur," replied the girl, her face flushing crimson with anger, "you are very wise; but wherefore spare to strike so crushing a blow?—not for love, I trow, of the poor knight who lies sick yonder."
"Nay," he returned, trying to soften his tones, till they resembled the angry purr of a cat, "but rather for love of thee, sweet Gwennola, for well I know how grieved thy tender heart would be to see yon miscreant meet his just doom."