Marpasse stared, but took the bag. Isoult had crept up, and her eyes were bright and greedy. She snatched at the bag, but Marpasse caught her wrist, and gave her a slap across the cheek.
“Play fair, little cat,” said she, “I cheat no one who does not try to cheat.”
Then she turned to Denise with a laugh, her hard eyes growing suddenly soft and bright.
“Take your share, sister, and welcome,” she said, “two mouthfuls of wine for a crust of your bread. Come in. I will keep Dame Red Rose’s fingers quiet. There are worse places to sleep in than a sand-pit.”
Peaceable folk might have fought shy of these boldly coloured, and bold-eyed women, but Denise had suffered so many things at the hands of the world that she did not stand upon dignity or caution. Marpasse and Isoult puzzled her, being so gaudy and yet so ragged, so broad and merry in their talk. When they had drunk wine and broken bread together, Marpasse came and sat herself at Denise’s feet. She unlaced the worn shoes, and finding blood and chafed skin beneath, made a noise like a clucking hen.
“You are not used to the road yet, my dear,” said she, “it is time I played the barber.”
In her blunt and practical way she pulled off Denise’s stockings, doing it gently enough, for the feet were chafed and sore.
“Black cat, throw me the oil flask.”
Isoult demurred, looking a little sullenly at Denise. For Isoult was fond of oiling and smoothing her black hair, and there would be no oil left for the toilet.
Marpasse took it by force.