Her right hand was armed, but the men fell away sheepishly from before the steel of her scorn. A woman lay cowering in a corner, and the big fellow with the purple face who had been beating the barrel like a drum was standing over her with a torn piece of cloth in one hand.
Isoult beckoned the woman.
“Come.”
She twisted past the big man, and, half crawling, fled to Isoult’s knees. And the men let her go, standing mute and balked, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Isoult pointed the woman over the bridge.
“Go; take to the woods. Hide while the wild swine are abroad.”
She kissed Isoult’s hand and fled.
Isoult waited on the footbridge, but the men hung back in the mill-house, for her scorn had sobered them.
Turning to cross the bridge, she found Merlin riding up on his white mule between the willows and aspens. His cowl fell back as he dismounted, and he was showing his teeth like a horse minded to bite.
Isoult called to him.