“Tell me everything,” she said.
And she knelt at the prayer-desk, her chin upon her hands, while Bertrand, leaning against the wall, told her the whole tale—all that had befallen him since the siege of Vannes.
There was silence between them when he had finished. Tiphaïne’s eyes were turned towards the altar, with no self-righteous pride upon her face.
“I can understand, Bertrand,” she said.
“Be rough with me.”
“Rough!”
He flushed and spread his arms.
“I am what I am; but, before God, I believe that there is something in me—yet. Do not flatter me; flattery did no man any good.”
She set herself to match his sincerity with equal truth.
“What right have I to preach to you? And yet—”