Marpasse looked solemn.
“They must beat Earl Simon out of the country first,” said she; “the old watchdog keeps the meat from being stolen. Phew, I would give something for a loaf of bread. We shall have to bide the night here, and chew grass. What a curse it is sometimes to wear gay clothes, and to have no gentleman near to take one up on his horse.”
Great contrasts were these two; Isoult, black as midnight as to eyes and hair, sharp, peevish, slim of body, red of mouth and white of skin; Marpasse, with large handsome face brown as a berry, hard blue eyes shining under a mop of tawny hair, and a mouth ready to break into giggles. They were resting on the road, these excellent gentlewomen, in the shelter of a sand-pit on the hills beyond Guildford, their baggage, such as it was, spread about them in happy confusion. Isoult had a great slit in her poppy-red tunic, a slit that showed the white shift beneath. She was waiting till Marpasse, that tawny woman who loved bright colours, should finish with the needle. But Marpasse’s darning was slow and clumsy, and Isoult plucked grass and gnawed it, watching the sandy track that went winding down into the valley.
Marpasse finished her botching at last, and wiping the sand from between her toes, pulled on her stocking. She stuck the needle into a wisp of thread, and tossed it into Isoult’s lap. But Isoult was still gnawing grass, and staring down the road with a brooding alertness in her eyes.
“Here comes a grey goat,” she said suddenly, spitting out a blade of grass, and wiping her chin, “maybe she is worth being gentle to. Who knows! At all events, we are hungry.”
Marpasse wriggled forward so that she had a view of the road. One stout leg protruded from under the skirt of cornflower blue, and the Juno’s limb betrayed a further need of the needle.
“Hey, grey gull, but you are tired, my dear.”
“Tired! Bah!” and Isoult bit her lips, “only married women walk so, as though they had a stick laid across their shoulders each morning.”
Marpasse held her ground.
“You should know enough of the road, little cat, to tell when a padder is footsore, and far spent. God a’ me, but she is good to look at, though she be lame. And a bag, too. If she has bread in it, I will call her dear sister.”