"Madame, whither do you go?"
"Where you may not venture, messire."
"God, I know no such region."
She flashed round on him with sudden bitterness.
"Go back to your wife. Go back to your wife, messire; remember her honour."
It was a home-thrust, but it did not shame or weaken him. He sheathed his sword, and looked at her sadly out of his grey eyes.
"What a world is this," he said, "when heaven comes at last, hell yawns across the path. When summer burns, winter lifts its head. Even as a man would grow strong and pure, his own cursed shackles cumber him. To-night I say no more to you. Go, madame, pray for me. You shall see my face again."
He let life vanish under the pines, and rode back with the sunset on his armour, his face staring into the rising night. His men came round him, silent statues of steel. He rode slowly, and met his wife.
Her eyes were turbulent, her lips red streaks of scorn.
"Ha, sire, I have found you."