"Most harmless, as you see, madame," he said. "For your magnanimity, I thank you. Deo gratias, I will be as grateful as I may."
She stood considering him out of her dark, long-lashed eyes. The man was good to look upon, ruddy and clean of lip, with eyes that stared straight to the truth, and a pose of the head that prophesied spirit. The sunlight of youth played sanguine upon his face; yet there was also a certain shadow there, as of premature wisdom, born of pain. There were faint lines about the mouth and eyes. For all its sleek and ruddy comeliness, it was not the face of a boy.
"Messire," she said to him at last.
"Madame."
"He who lurks over long in the wolf's den may meet the dam at the door."
He smiled at her, a frank flash of sympathy that was not devoid of gratitude.
"Haste would be graceless," he said to her.
"How so?" she asked him.
"Ha, Madame Yeoland, have I not watched my arms at night before the high altar at Avalon? Have I not sworn to serve women, to keep troth, and to love God? You judge me hardly if you think of me as a butcher and a murderer. For the death of your kinsfolk I hold myself ashamed."
There was a fine light upon his face, a power of truth in his voice that was not hypocritic. The girl stared him over with a certain critical earnestness that boasted a gleam of approval.