“Tiphaïne, you will wake every one; listen to me—”
She shook him off, cold as the moonlight for the moment, the shock of her brother’s shame making her hard and pitiless.
“You think that I shall help you to act this lie?”
His hands leaped out to her with futile pathos in the darkness.
“Tiphaïne, I cannot bear it; Tinteniac comes to-morrow.”
“Well, what then?”
“He may know everything. They will strike off my spurs, and I can never show my face in Brittany again. Tiphaïne, for God’s sake—help me!”
She unbent nothing to him, the pitifulness of his weakness filling her with a sense of overmastering scorn and anger.
“No, no.”
“But my father!”