She did not falter.
“And all heaven opened, Sir Guy!”
“That was no King!”
“His ghost then!”
“It is that bastard of the forest, Fulk Ferrers, and you know it.”
She laughed in his face.
“Friend Guy, you have drunk too much wine.”
CHAPTER XXII
The Inn of The Painted Lady stood near the river, a gaudy, cut-throat, bold-faced house, the plaster between its beams daubed a hard, bright red, the barge-boards of its gables painted blue. The “Painted Lady” herself on her sign wore scarlet and blue, and her round eyes ogled the passers-by.
The inn door was barred that night, the windows shuttered. Nothing but chinks of light came from it, furtive gleams that lost themselves quickly in the darkness. The lane in front of it was rough and dirty and full of holes, and from the lane a narrow passage went down between two houses to the river.