Arletta darted an impatient look at the quipster, and ordered him away with a wave of the hand. The captain had the black-dog on his shoulders, and it was better for all that he should be left alone.
Presently she crept close to Bertrand and offered to unlace his bassinet. Her brown hands were quickly at their work, Bertrand letting her disarm him, piece by piece, staring sullenly into the fire, and not guessing how much he resembled a sour and surly child. Arletta gave him all her patience, keeping her lips shut and pestering him with no more questions. She took the rusty bassinet and laid it amid the beech leaves, and soon shoulder-plates, demi-brassarts, and greaves were lying beside it.
Arletta’s fingers were on the buckle of his sword-belt.
“Ha! what are you at? Let it be!”
He pushed her hands away, looking at her searchingly.
“Lording!”
“I trust no one with my sword; no one shall play tricks with it. Are you for treachery?”
The taunt was a mean one, and Arletta winced.
“Your sword is a true sword,” she said, “and do you not trust me also?”
She put her hands out to him as she knelt with a pleading tenderness on her face. Bertrand looked in her eyes, and hated his own soul. Poor, honorless wench that she was, she shamed him, and gave him a loyalty that he did not deserve.