Below, towards the valley, dark masses of men were moving on Guildford town. The faint braying of the trumpets came up on the evening breeze. Isoult saw a part of the King’s host on the march.
She tossed her head, laughed, and spread her arms.
“The good saints have blessed us,” she said, and she looked at Denise curiously under her black brows as though searching her inmost heart.
Marpasse beamed.
“Our grey sister has brought us luck. We must keep our wits sharp to-night.”
They went on down the hill, and Isoult, walking softly and lightly as a cat, pointed out where a great baggage train lumbered with a crowd of people like black ants about it. Already they were pitching tents and pavilions in the meadows outside the town. The evening sunlight seemed to strike upon water, for the glitter of the King’s host was like the glitter of a river flowing in the valley. Everything looked so peaceful and minute, so orderly, and yet so human. It was like the green grass over a quagg, bright and rich at a distance, but covering rottenness beneath. Up on the hills one did not smell the sweat of the horses nor hear the men’s foul talk, nor see the savagery that was loose in their eyes.
Isoult turned, and looked sharply at Marpasse.
“Shall we try the town?”
Marpasse shook her head. Her face was hard now, and her eyes watchful. Denise wondered at the change that had come over the two women.
“A quick bargain is a bad one,” said Marpasse, “let us bide our time, and listen. We are good enough to take our choice. I shall keep my knife in my hand to-night.”