“And so I mean.”
Her eyes pressed his as one sword presses on another.
“So! The boy is not to be cozened?”
“I have been very patient.”
“Patient! Honey and wine—patient! Jack Frost in doublet and hose!”
She laughed, scanned his face with some quickening of her audacity, and drew her hood forward again, consenting to realise that he would abide by his words. Her resignation was frank and confident, the resignation of a fearless spirit whose blood flowed too hotly for little malicious and peevish impulses to live in it. She had a shrewd instinct for the worth of a man’s word, seeing that life and her own heart had taught her the saying, “There is no man whom I cannot fool.”
“Let us see the White Lodge, Messire Fulk. I am growing hungry.”
She caught the rapid side-glance he gave her as they moved on together over the heath. Her sudden surrender had made him suspicious, so that he held his head high and nosed the air like a stag to get wind of an ambuscado.
“I play fair,” she said; “the game is yours—to-night.”
His eyes were sweeping the heath.