"Joan," said Charles, "do you know why I have sent for you?"
The girl looked down. But, although she quivered, it was not with fright.
"I do, sire."
Something of a sardonic smile played around the seigneur's mouth. The butterfly came too quietly to the net.
"We are but gloomy folk here, rough soldiers and few women. It has been in my mind—" Here he saw the Bishop's averted head, and scowled. What had been in his mind he forgot. He said: "I would have you come willingly, or not at all."
At that she lifted her head and looked at him. "You know I will come," she said. "I can do nothing else, but I do not come willingly, my lord. You are asking too much."
The Bishop turned his head hopefully.
"Why?"
"You are a hard man, my lord."
If she meant to anger him, she failed. They were not soft days. A man hid such tenderness as he had under grimness, and prayed in the churches for phlegm.