"I cannot be called Galors to my face; politics may go to the devil. Keep my secret, countryman; I am in Galors' shell, but I will be Galors no more."
Falve dropped on his knees. "Oh, my lord, my lord—" he began to cry out.
"Enough of lords," said Prosper. "Some of them do not very lordly, I grant you. Your words touched me nearly. Be so good as to make yourself plain. Who is Isoult?"
"Isoult la Desirous, my wife, Messire."
"Your wife!" cried Prosper, grinding his teeth.
"As good as that, my lord. I should have married her in the morning if my mother hadn't played the Turk on me."
So he had the whole story out of him. Prosper learnt that Isoult had been put in her way to safety by the old woman, who immediately after had made that way the most perilous of all—with the best intentions always.
"Master Falve, I am your debtor," said Prosper at the end; "I wish you good evening."
"Messire, will you not find my wife?"
"Your wife again, sirrah!" cried he, turning sharply.