"This dress is privileged; my bell warns folk away; who would fall foul of a miserable leper? If this frock fails me, I have my sword."
She looked at him with the solemnity of a child, hand folded in hand.
"I cannot understand you," she said.
"Not yet."
"Are you the man whose life I saved? That breath of death on your brow, messire, should have made you thoughtful of your soul."
"Let me plead a moment."
"For what?"
"My honour."
"Why your honour?"
"Because I want you to believe that I have a soul."