Martin Valliant had gone as white as the dough she was kneading. His knees were trembling. He could not escape from the knowledge of her green gown, her shining hair, and the sleekness of her skin. And her voice was very pleasant, with a sly lilt of playfulness and of youth in its tones.
He gripped the arms of his chair and stood up.
“My child—” he began.
She gave him the full, challenging frankness of her brown eyes, and Martin knew that he could not pretend that she was a child.
“It is very lonely here,” she said, looking at her hands, “and a man cannot do a woman’s work. Rose told me that travelers passed no more than once a month. And—and I——”
He pushed his chair back, and groped with one hand for the cross that hung at his girdle.
“It is not good that you should be here.”
He saw her head droop a little. Her hands rested on the table. He strove with himself, and went on.
“But I thank you, my sister. What I bear must be borne for the sake of the vows I have taken. When I kneel in the chapel, you shall be in my prayers.”
All the sly, provoking roguery had gone from her face. She did not speak for a moment, did not move. Then she lifted her head and looked at him, and her brown eyes were like the eyes of an animal in pain.