Tinteniac watched all this from the window, mystified in measure as to what the man in the black harness purposed next. He had not noticed that Tiphaïne had left him, had lifted the bar from the staples, and was hurrying down the stone stairway into the hall.
Bertrand ran the blade of his sword under the knotted ends of the surcoat, slung it over his shoulder like a bundle, and picked up his shield. He gave a last look at the window, saluted Tinteniac, and marched off briskly into the orchard. His black harness had already disappeared beyond the apple-trees before Tiphaïne’s gray gown swept the grass.
She looked round her with a slight knitting of the brows, seeing only Tinteniac at the window, the white domes of the trees, and the headless body in its gaudy harness lying prone in the long grass.
“Where?” and her eyes questioned Tinteniac, who stroked his chin and appeared puzzled.
“Our Breton champion has left us with our liberty.”
“Gone?”
“Like a beggar with a bundle. Let the man alone. He has his reasons and the advantage of us.”
“And yet—”
Tinteniac laughed.
“The woman in you is inquisitive,” he said.