“One cannot change the past,” she said.
He flung up his head and looked her in the face.
“I have done with the old life. This child’s blood shall make a new man of me.”
“Well spoken.”
“I mean it. Help me with your prayers.”
She held out her hands to him across the grave.
“There are brave men needed—yes, and you are brave enough. Take arms for our Breton homes, Bertrand, and help to drive the English into the sea.”
They knelt, looking steadfastly into each other’s eyes, no pride between them for the moment. It was then that a sudden thought came to Bertrand. He drew his poniard, and, bending over the grave, cut off a lock of Arletta’s hair. Reddening a little, he held it out to Tiphaïne, his eyes pleading with her like the eyes of a dog.
“Here is the poor child’s token. Give me a strand of your hair to bind with it. It is all I ask, and it will help me.”
She stood up without a word, let her hair fall from the net that held it, a cloud of gold and bronze about her pale face and over her wine-red dress. Taking Bertrand’s poniard, she cut off a lock and gave it him, content that the threads of gold should be twined with dead Arletta’s tresses.