His companion was, as Luc knew at once, a foreigner; what else he might be was not so easy to decide. His age might be between thirty and forty. He was tall, well-made, and well-featured, with a rich olive complexion and quickly moving brown eyes. He wore his own hair hanging about his face, and there was more than a little of the eccentric in his dress, which was of the brightest green silk lined with black.
From the hard quality of his French, something vivid, self-confident, gay, and yet indifferent in his manner and person, Luc believed he was Italian.
He, on his part, was not long in noticing the slim young gentleman in the window-seat, and, leaning back in his chair, he called out an invitation to wine. Something in his cordial tone, his attitude, his smile of gleaming, excellent teeth showed Luc that he was a fellow of no breeding.
Without hesitation he civilly declined and left the room. As he closed the door he heard the foreigner laugh good-naturedly and say something to the priest in Italian marked by a beautiful Roman accent.
Luc had his own meal outside on one of the little tables under the dusty vines, and before the middle of the afternoon rode on again, meaning to reach Avignon before the night.
Towards evening they came to a miserable village, whose inhabitants seemed in a considerable state of excitement: a great number of women were talking and shrieking round the fountain in the market-place, and three priests argued outside the porch of the poor little church.
The Marquis acknowledged their humble salutes, and was glad to be rid of them and out in the open country again.
He had not long cleared the houses, however, before he overtook a procession, which was evidently the cause of the commotion. It consisted of four soldiers, a serjeant, and a prisoner, followed by a crowd of peasants, mostly men and boys.
Luc’s hazel eyes flashed quickly to the prisoner, who walked between the two foremost soldiers. She was a young peasant girl, finely made and not more than eighteen years of age. Her blue skirt and red bodice were worn, faded, and patched, her feet and arms bare; round her coarse, sun-dried hair was a soiled white handkerchief. Her face, though pale under the tincture of the weather, was composed and serene, even though the crowd was assailing her with hideous names, with horrible accusations, with handfuls of dirt and stones.
Her hands were tied behind her, and if her walk fell slowly the soldiers urged her on with the points of their bayonets.