This struck him as an absolute disaster. He went guiltily to his cell, and took out what by courtesy he called bread. It was of his own baking, a detestable piece of alchemy.
He weighed it in his hand, and found himself thinking of the lithe way in which she moved.
“They bake good bread at Paradise,” he said to himself.
A quite ridiculous anger attacked him.
“Mean hounds! This chapelry should be better served. A couple of mules with panniers——”
He went forth, stroking his chin dubiously, and looking at the bread he carried.
“Poor stuff for such a pilgrim.”
The door of the little rest-house stood open, showing its oak table and benches, and the rude wooden pallets that served as beds. Mellis was standing behind the table, unpacking one of her saddle-bags.
“This bread——”
He felt his face growing hot. Her eyes regarded him with momentary amusement.