"A short and violent illness," said Philip. "All of last night the women have been with her, and this morning—" He glanced toward the window. "I was right, as you see, cousin. It is snowing."
Charles clutched him by the arm and jerked him about. "What about this morning?" he roared.
"Snow on Christmas," mused Philip, "prophesies another prosperous year." Then having run his quarry to earth, he showed mercy.
"Would you like to see her?"
Charles swallowed again, this time his pride.
"I doubt if she cares to see me."
"Probably not," said Philip. "Still a few words—she is a true woman, and kindly. Also it is a magnanimous season. But you must tread softly and speak fair. This is no time for a high hand."
Charles, perforce, must promise mildness. He made the concession with poor grace, but he made it. And in Philip's eyes grew a new admiration for this hulking cousin and enemy, who ate his pride for a woman. At the entrance to an upper room where hung a leather curtain, he stood aside.
"Softly," he said through his beard. "No harsh words. Send the child in first."
So Philip went ponderously away and left Charles to cool his heels and wait. As he stood there sheepishly he remembered many things with shame. Joan, and the violence of the last months, and the Bishop's averted head. For now he knew one thing, and knew it well. The lady of his heart lay in that quiet room beyond; and the devils that had fought in him were dead of a Christmas peace.