"And who are you that dare say it?"
"I—I am Jean del' Peyra."
The girl laughed contemptuously. "I never heard the name."
"I have told you my name, what is yours?" asked the boy, and he picked up his staff and began once more to point it.
There was indifference in his tone, indifference in the act, that exasperated the girl.
"You do not care—I will not say."
"No," he answered, scraping leisurely at the wood. "I do not greatly care. Why should I? You have shown me to-day that you do not value yourself, and you do not suppose, then, that I can esteem one who does not esteem herself."
"You dare say that!" The girl flared into fury. She stooped to pick up the hammer. Jean put his foot on it.
"No," said he. "You would use that, I suppose, to knock out my brains, because I show you no homage, because I say that you have acted as a fool, that your bravery is that of a fool, that your thoughts—aye, your thoughts of plunder and murder against the Bishop of Sarlat, your old owl—towhit, towhoo! are the thoughts of a fool. No—I do not care for the name of a fool."
"Why did you run up the steps? Why did you cry to me to desist from knocking out the posts? Why concern yourself a mite about me, if you so despise me?" gasped the girl, and it seemed as though the words shot like flames from her lips.