The dishevelled figure fell on its knees at the Vicomte’s feet.
“Sire, sire, a great misfortune.”
“Ah!”
“Madame has been taken by Croquart the Fleming. It was on the road to Josselin.” And she gabbled all she knew, and straightway began to weep.
Stephen Raguenel looked down at her mutely, very gently, yet with a peculiar quivering of the lips. There was nothing foolish in Lisette’s grief to him. The truth was too poignant to suffer him to feel the thoughtless egotism of the woman’s tears.
“Girard.”
The old man was at his side, looking questioningly into his master’s face.
“Girard, help me to my room. I had rather have heard that she was dead.”
XLI
Over golden moors and through winding woodways deep with the glamour of forests in green leaf, Bertrand and Tiphaïne rode homeward towards Dinan.