"No maiden at all, good woman, but a wife of my own making."
"Ah, joys of Mary, what is this?"
"Ask her, mistress, ask her."
"I shall ask her, never you fear. Stay you there, father, for your life."
"Trust me, ma'am."
Dame Ursula went straight up to the bed and whipped off the blankets.
There cowered the girl.
"Tell me the sober truth by all the pains of Dies Irae," whispered her hostess. "Are you a maiden or none?"
It was a shrewd torment that, double-forked. To deny was infamy, to affirm ruin. However, there was no escape from it: Isoult had never been a learned liar.
"I am a maid, ma'am," she said in a whisper.
"Cover yourself warm, my lamb, I'll twist him," said the delighted mother. She went quickly to the door.