"I know nothing of letters from Galors, Countess. When I write it is in my own name."
"There is mystery here. He wrote me of my daughter, that he would bring her—ah, and take her again. She has come as he said. But where is Galors?"
Prosper lifted on high the head of his enemy. "Here he is," said he.
A timely diversion was caused here by a certain red-cheeked girl, by name Melot. She had already proved the sharpness of her sloe-black eyes; she proved it now again by seeing, alone of all that company, the hounded page-boy in the Lady Pietosa de Bréauté. After her first gape of re-discovery, being a girl of parts, conscious that generosity was afoot, she edged her way to the front, stooped suddenly and caught at the hem of the red silk robe to kiss it.
"What is this, wench?" said the Countess, glad of the relief.
Then said Melot on her knees, "My lady, I do this because I was the first who sinfully found out your ladyship's lady daughter when she was here before like a boy; and I pray her pardon, and yours, my lady, and yours again, Messire, for the deadly sin I did."
Red-cheeked Melot ran on glibly up to this point on a beaten track. All maidens of her class wallow in contrition. But when her words failed her, she sought a distressed lady's proper shelter, and began to cry. Isoult stooped and caught her up before she could be stayed. She was too newly a Countess, you see.
"This is Roy's answer to thee, Melot," she laughed, and kissed the rogue.
But for Isabel, long a Countess—otherwise. This unhappy lady felt herself whipped. Her abasement was now so deep, so desolately did she stand among her dependents, a naked woman spoiled of all her robes, that Prosper's honest heart smote him.
"Countess," he said, smiling, "will you give me what Galors might have won?"