“A great fighter and a fine man-at-arms, though he fought for pay. And he made a priest of you!”
Martin felt her veiled scorn of all men-women, and his flesh tingled.
“I have never questioned his wisdom.”
“Never yet! Have you ever heard the trumpets calling? But what am I saying? Yet men must fight, Father Martin, sometimes, or be dishonored.”
“It is possible,” he confessed.
“Bishops and abbots have ridden into battle before now.”
“True. The cause may sanctify the deed.”
Her bitterness returned of a sudden. She seemed to clasp her grief, and press her lips to it with fanatical passion.
“Son of old Valliant—listen. Your father would have understood these words of mine. Why do I not lie down and weep? Why do I thirst to go on living? Because my heart cries out against a great wrong—my wrong. Yes, I am a wild wolf—an eagle. This is a world of teeth and talons; your father knew it, and lived by his sword. And I tell you, Martin Valliant, that I shall fight to the death—hate to the death. My holy wine is the blood of my brother—and I am not ashamed.”
He stood swaying slightly, with a tumult, like the clashing of swords, in his brain.