“Let Croquart think you are my wife.”
“I have no ring.”
“Take this.”
And the exchange was made while the Fleming’s back was turned, the circlet of gold slipping along the girl’s finger.
Croquart had turned on them, and Tinteniac’s discretion prompted him to show no temper to the Fleming. His natural serenity returned. He even smiled at Croquart as he knelt beside him.
“You have broken me, sir, and now you must help to mend me for madame, my wife—here. We had heard that you were at Pontivy.”
Croquart was busy with Tiphaïne uncovering Tinteniac’s wounded shoulder. Gilded bassinet and golden head were nearly touching. At the word “wife,” Tiphaïne felt the Fleming’s breath upon her cheek. She knew that he was looking at her, but she kept her eyes on Tinteniac’s face.
“I was at Pontivy, sire.”
“Grace de Dieu, you are everywhere. We thought the Josselin road safe to-day.”
Croquart grinned, but said nothing of his defeat.