“There may be more than one jay in the wood.”
“There was but one to-night; but to-morrow, or the next day——”
She broke off with suggestive abruptness, and walked on at his side with a casual complaisance, holding her head high, and watching him at her leisure. She marked the set of his shoulders, and the way he carried his head, as though he lived a hawk’s life, looking ever into the distance, alert, part of the wild. He swung along with sweeping strides, the action of a man who could run like a deer, not the busy strut of the townsman. Now and again his profile was sharply outlined for her—a straight, stark profile with firm lips and a thrustful chin.
Presently she began to murmur a song, and the murmur grew into idle, irresponsible singing. She sang in an inward, dreamy voice, the notes flowing out smoothly like water from a marble conduit. It was a rich voice, capable of a delicious flux of sound, subtle, promising many emotions. Fulk kept his guard, though she sang as though it was as natural for her to sing as to breathe. This voice of hers might bring him adventures, brisk blows, and a sore head.
“Sing,” said he; “sing as you please. But if you sing any rascal within reach of this short sword of mine he’ll not bless your music.”
“I sing to please myself, good sir. Listen:
“The bed cover was of purple cloth,
All powdered with golden lilies.
The maid’s hair was the colour of gold
And violets and roses were strewn around.