“A child, yes. I can see Robin now cantering his pony over the meadows. What a blessed boon it is that we mortals cannot foresee the future! The shame of this thing has broken my father’s heart.”
She began to speak of the past, that past that made the present seem more unlivable and real. She was grateful to him, Bertrand knew. But what was mere gratitude?—a cup of wine to a starving man.
“Tiphaïne,” and the low pitch of his voice startled her, “I am thinking of that poor child’s grave among the beech-trees of Broceliande.”
“Arletta?”
“Yes. You remember the words you gave me then?”
She looked at him steadily, with a transient quivering of her upper lip.
“I remember those words. And—I am thinking they may be forgotten.”
“They can never be forgotten.”
“No?”
“For they have made me something of which I am not ashamed.”