"I am as wise."
"On that score, this Flavian and Fulviac of the Forest are irreconcilable as day and night."
The man stood his sword pommel upwards in the grass, and ran on.
"Some day I shall slay this same Flavian of Gambrevault. His blood will expiate the blood of these your kinsfolk. Therefore, madame, you will be my debtor."
"That is all?" she asked him with a wistfulness in her voice that was even piteous.
Fulviac looked long into the fire like a man whose thoughts channel under the crust of years. Pity for the girl had gone to the heart under the steel cuirass, a pity that was not the pander of desire. His eyes took a new meaning into their keen depths; he looked to have grown suddenly younger by some years. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its half-mocking and grandiose confidence. It was the voice of a man who strides generous and eager into the breach of fate.
"Listen," he said to her, "I may tell you that your sorrow has armed my manhood. Give me my due; I am more than a mere vagabond. You have been cruelly dealt with; I take your cause upon the cross of my sword."
"You, messire?"
"Even so. I need a good woman, a brave woman. You please me."
"Well?"