“Lording, lording, why do you turn from me? Dear God, what have I done?”
She was panting, quivering, looking up into his face. Bertrand, conscious of the straining arms about his neck and of the questioning wildness of her eyes, stood helpless for a moment, betrayed by his own conscience.
“Gently, child, gently,” he said, trying to unfasten her hands, and dreading lest Tiphaïne should hear them—“gently. What ails you? Come, come, be a good wench!”
Arletta clung to him the more, quivering, and pleading with him in passionate whispers. Bertrand began to lose patience.
“Letta, Letta!”
He spoke hoarsely, forcing down her hands.
“Listen, Letta, I have words to speak to you.”
Repulsed, she sprang away, thrusting him back with her hands, her eyes miserable yet full of fury.
“Yes, yes, I know—I’ll not bear it. You are ashamed of me; you hate me; I see it clear enough.”
Bertrand tried to soothe her, holding out his hands.