“You must judge by your woman’s wit,” said I. “And he will come. He fears no one. But no, tell him Paul Grande waits at the lower ford.”
“The traitor!” she blazed out; and, recoiling, hurled the money in my face. It stung strangely.
“You are wrong,” said I, in a low voice. “But as you will. Tell him, if you will, that Paul Grande, the traitor, waits for him at the lower ford. But if you do not tell him, be sure he will not soon forgive you. And for the money, he shall keep it for your children—and you will be sorry to have unjustly accused me.”
She laughed with bitter mockery, and turned away.
“But I will tell him; that can do no harm,” she said. “I’ll tell him the traitor who loves him waits at the ford.”
I withdrew into the wood, beyond all reason pained at the injustice.
The unpleasant peasant woman was as good as her word, however; for in little more than the space of an hour I saw Father Fafard approaching. Plainly he had come hot upon the instant.
“My dear, dear boy! Where have you been, and what suffered?” he cried, catching me hard by the two arms, and looking into my eyes.
“It was Grûl saved me,” said I.
Beyond earshot, deep in the wood, where no wind hindered the noon sun from warming a little open glade, I told my story briefly.