“And my two esquires, Messire Croquart?” and Tinteniac tried not to wince as the wound smarted.
“I have sent two of my men, sire, to bury them.”
Tinteniac started, but restrained any show of feeling. He had caught the shocked pity in Tiphaïne’s eyes, and, though the poor lads were dead, he remembered for Tiphaïne’s sake the need for dissembling.
“Thanks, Messire Croquart,” he said, vowing many solemn things in his heart.
“The lads fought well, sire. It was a pity.”
“A pity, most certainly a pity. Poor Gilbert!—poor Gilles! We cannot have war, sir, without death. Madame—wife, you look troubled; leave us awhile. Messire Croquart will feel for you over these poor lads’ death.”
Tiphaïne understood him, and, rising, moved away with her face between her hands. It was no mere piece of acting, for there were tears upon her cheeks—tears of pity and of passionate impatience that all this brutal work should be done under God’s sun.
Croquart looked after her with a glint of the eyes. He noticed the fineness of her figure, despite her riding-cloak; the sweeping curves of bosom and of hips were not to be hid. He began binding up Tinteniac’s wound, thinking the while that the aristocrat had excellent taste.
“Come, my friend, let us be frank. How much do you want from me?”
Their eyes met. Croquart laughed.