There was much loud laughter from the rest. The woman Arletta had plucked out her knife and made a stab at the man’s wrist. He let go the bridle to avoid the blow, cursing her for a spitfire as she drew clear.
“Keep your pig,” she said, viciously.
“Gaston can kiss the pig,” shouted a facetious comrade, and they all laughed and twitted the pig-bearer till he lost his temper and threatened to let blood.
Arletta, smoothing out the petulance from her face, heeled her hackney forward and approached Bertrand, who had halted his horse on the brow of a slope. He was staring morosely at the light shining amid the thickets, but turned his head as Arletta joined him.
“The saints send us a good lodging to-night, lording,” she said, with a giggle and a toss of the head.
Bertrand looked at her, but did not smile.
“We must beat the bushes first,” he answered, sullenly.
Arletta, shirking his surliness, threw him a bold look out of her black eyes and touched her bosom with her hand.
“Ah, lording, I am tired,” she said; “I should like to sleep in a bed once more. As for that pig Gaston, I’ll give him the knife if he makes a mock of me.”
She was watching Bertrand, her sharp lips parted over her teeth.