Guillem, the gaoler, had been waiting for the summons.
News had come to him late in the afternoon that had made him indifferent to his fate. The girl Joan, whom he loved, had come up the hill at the overlord's summons. So, instead of raising an alarm, Guillem had waited sullenly. Death, which yesterday he would have blenched to behold, now beckoned him. When he was brought in, he stood with folded arms and asked no mercy.
"He is gone, my lord," said Guillem, and waited. He did not glance at the girl.
"Gone?" said Charles. Then he laughed, such laughter as turned the girl cold.
"Gone, earth-clod? How now? Perhaps you, too, wished to give a hostage to fortune, to forestall me in mercy?"
He turned to the girl beside him.
"You see," he said, "to what lengths this spirit of the Holy Day extends itself. Our friend here—" Then he saw her face and knew the truth.
The smile set a little on his lips.
"Why, then," he said to the gaoler, "such mercy should have its reward." He turned to Joan. "What say you? Shall I station him at your door, sweet lady, as a guard of honour?"
Things went merrily after that, for Guillem drew a knife and made, not for the seigneur, but for Joan. The troubadours feared to stop singing without a signal, so they sang through white lips. The dogs gnawed at their bones and the seigneur sat and smiled, showing his teeth.