The girl was peering at him, her eyes dark and questioning; but there was no smell of wine upon her breath.
“See, lording, I have not touched the bottle. There is a room above; I have been there; there is dry bracken to make a bed.”
She tried to lay one hand upon his shoulder and to lean against him, but Bertrand shook her off and would not look into her face.
“I must keep watch,” he said. “Go up, child, and sleep.”
“You are wrath with me?”
“No, no; let me be, Arletta. I tell you I have the black-dog on my shoulders.”
She drew away from him, half fierce, half humbled, and, sitting down on the threshold, drew her skirts about her and curled herself against the door-post. Bertrand still leaned upon his sword. He paid no heed to the girl as she lay and watched him, jealously, yet with some of the homage of a dog within her eyes.
Bertrand turned on her at last, almost with an oath.
“Go up and sleep.”
She shivered, but did not stir.