Robin laughed, blushed, and frowned at the fire. Tiphaïne was looking at him with almost a mother’s love in her eyes. Her brother’s restless gayety had no sinister significance for her sister’s pride in him. It was a solemn evening; Robin might be unnerved by the pathos of it, but nothing more.
“Robin will play his part,” she said, quietly.
“God’s grace, of course, he shall! More wine, messire; let us drink to brave Beaumanoir and to Brittany.”
Before the hour for sleep came round, Tiphaïne drew Bertrand aside towards the window, and stood looking keenly in his face. His eyes were happier than of old, and the sullen discontent had left him since Arletta’s burying in the garden of the Aspen Tower.
“Bertrand.”
“Yes, Tiphaïne?”
“How is it with you?”
He looked at her frankly, yet with a saddened smile.
“I am learning my lesson—letter by letter,” he answered.
“I am glad of it. We are the firmer friends, and—”