Bertrand said nothing.
“Yes, you would be rid of me, you would throw me away like an old shoe!”
She turned suddenly, threw up her arms, and ran unsteadily towards the door. Bertrand sprang after her, and then halted. What was the use of it? The wrench must come, the reckoning be paid. Perhaps the girl was only trying her woman’s tricks on him. He strove to comfort himself with the suspicion, and let her go, weak and wounded, like a winged bird.
Tiphaïne supped in the solar that night, Bertrand serving her, and old Jehanot carrying the dishes from the kitchen. Two torches were burning, one on either side of the great hooded chimney, and freshly cut rushes were strewn upon the floor.
Tiphaïne was in a silent mood, engrossed in her own thoughts. By chance she had overheard Arletta’s pleadings with Bertrand in the hall. Her heart was sad in her for the girl’s sake, though she was but learning the rough methods of the world.
Old Jehanot had gone to the kitchen with the empty dishes, and Bertrand stood filling Tiphaïne’s glass with ypocrasse.
“Enough,” and she raised her hand.
He let the lid of the beaker fall, and moved towards the door, for Jehanot had left it ajar, and the draught from the hall came in like a winter wind. Bertrand’s hand was on the latch when he heard the rattling of the curtain-rings along the bed-rails, as though some one had stood hidden and bided their time to sweep the curtains back. Tiphaïne’s chair was drawn up before the fire, and Bertrand, turning on his heel, saw Arletta swoop towards her with one arm raised.
It was all done in the taking of a breath. Arletta had struck her blow, and in her flurry snapped the knife-blade on the oak head-rail of the chair. Bertrand, forgetting the past utterly in the moment’s wrath, took Arletta by the throat and hurled her back against the bed.
“Mad beast!—murderess!”