"I have said very little about it," Prosper replied, remembering as he spoke the forest Mass which he had heard, and that he had discoursed upon this adventure with Alice of the Hermitage.
"The hawk pecked at the girl's heart," said the lady.
"It did not get so far as that, Countess."
"You speak prose, my friend."
"I am no troubadour, but speak what I know."
"The heart means nothing to you, Prosper!"
"The heart? Dear lady, I assure you the girl was not hurt. She is a young woman by now, probably wife to a clown and mother of half-a-dozen."
"Prosper, you disappoint me. Let us ride on. I am sick of these shivering grey fields."
The Countess was vexed, for the life of him he could not tell why. He made peace at last, but she would not tell him the cause of her morning's irritation.
That was not the only reminder he had that day—in fact, it was but the first. In the evening came another.