“You answer me—that?”
“I command here, madame.”
“Then call a halt.”
“The Sieur de Tinteniac must hold on to the saddle till we reach the hills.”
“You have no pity!”
“I have no time to waste.”
“And I—no words.”
She reined in her palfrey, slipped from the saddle, and, leading the beast aside by the bridle, began to pick the flowers that grew in the long grass, as though she were at home in the La Bellière meadows. Croquart pulled up his horse, looking as black and threatening as a priest out-argued by a heretic. Tinteniac, guessing what had passed between them, reined up in turn and let his horse crop the grass.
Croquart’s veneer of chivalry cracked under the heat of the sun. Tiphaïne’s eyes had flattered him too little to persuade him to be pleased with a woman’s whims. He heeled his horse across the road, to see the Vicomte’s daughter retreating from him at her leisure, singing to herself and stooping to pick flowers.
“Madame!”