Next week, Guillem, this time having prepared his answer, came straight towards his lady, who loosened her wimple that she might hear the more clearly. As she took the pax, he said: “I die.”
“Nay, he must not die, my lady!” cried Margarida, when Flamenca had repeated this response. “I swear I have never seen so handsome a young clerk.”
“What can I do?” asked her mistress, weakly.
“Ask him: ‘Of what?’ since that is what we wish to know.”
This same Sunday the workmen came from Chatillon. They marvelled greatly at the oath Guillem required of them before making known the task they were to accomplish. This was to dig a passage under the ground between the baths and his own room. They were skilful and worked rapidly, in such wise that in short space the passage was completed and so cunningly contrived at both ends that not a sign of it showed.
When, on the eighth day, Guillem gave the pax, Flamenca whispered: “Of what?” then drew back quickly.
“My little Margarida, I said it,” she exclaimed when they were back in the tower.
“Thank God for that, my lady! I only hope he heard you this time, too.”
“You may set your mind at rest, my dear. He moved away so slowly that he could not have helped hearing me. Now we shall know the answer on Thursday, for that is the feast of the Ascension.”
“Madam, methinks these feasts come far less often now than at any other season,” pouted Alis. “The rest of the year, when we have no need of them, there is one nearly every day. While here, this summer, we have had five full weeks with nothing but Sundays!”