The appeal was a little louder, bringing Bertrand round upon his heel, to stare at her vacantly, as though his thoughts were far away.
“Yes, child, yes.”
“May I make a fire?”
Bertrand glanced at the wet hearth and the gloom of the great chimney.
“It would be as well,” he said; “the place is damp as a cellar. It is not fit—” and he halted, stroking his chin.
Arletta gave a little shiver, and a twinge of pain swept across her face. She shook her black hair, climbed down from the bed, and went and stood close by Bertrand.
“Lording, you are tired.”
She touched his arm and tried to slip her hand in his. Almost imperceptibly Bertrand shrank from her, yet with an instinctiveness she could not miss. He was listening, and glancing restlessly towards the chapel door.
“You will find wood in the shed by the kitchen.”
“Yes, lording.”