“A man cannot help a lame horse,” he said.
“A lame horse would not keep Bertrand from Mivoie.”
Robin stopped his whistling, and appeared absorbed in watching the hovering of a hawk above the fields. The bird’s wings were palpitating in the light of the setting sun. She swooped suddenly and dropped from sight below the trees.
“Something has happened to Bertrand.”
Robin started, and pretended not to have understood her.
“Happened!”
“Yes. Bertrand would rather have died than break troth at such an hour.”
The tortures of the day seemed to culminate for Robin at that moment. He had always feared his sister in a measure, and stood half in awe of her stronger will and the unflinching candor of her eyes. Her words were innocent enough, and yet they seemed like knots of steel that wring the truth from some wretch judged to the torture.
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“Perhaps. How should I know? I have had no news of Bertrand since I left him in the woods by Loudeac.”