"Why," she said calmly, "I thought you said he was a fighter. Is he not so?" she went on, while all the time she was unwrapping the hood from her head and—next—taking off the horrible Brittany cap which hid her beautiful hair that, now it was no longer obscured, gleamed a superb dark chestnut in the rays of the moon.
"He is that," I replied, "and a good one, as most men who have been soldier and sailor both, to say nothing of wandering about Europe as an adherent of an unhappy cause, are like to be. But the man is a good tilter who can hold his own against two."
"Perhaps he will not have to fight two of them," she said, still very calmly. "One has, I imagine, no fighting in him."
"What makes you think that?"
"Oh! Oh! Well, let us wait and see. Perhaps—well! I can't say."
"You observed that fellow well, anyhow. And heard his voice."
"Yes, yes!" she said; "yes, but it was no—— Come," she said, "let us go and look after the watchdog."
Whereon we now retraced our steps, passing out of the great hall and down the corridor towards where the side-door with the little wicket in it was.
And then, as we drew near that door, we heard (and more especially we did so because Damaris had forgotten to close the little wicket after she had looked through it at me, so that noises outside, if any, might plainly be distinguished) the clash of arms, a sound sweet enough to a soldier's ears.
"Hark!" I said, redoubling my pace as I did so, and catching hold of the girl's hand, whereby she was compelled also to move more swiftly, though, in sober truth, I think she was as anxious to reach the door and get it open as I was myself. "Hark! they have set upon him. And there were two. Oh! this is cowardly, murderous! I must take my share."