“Bah,” said she, “what is the use of talking? The good people will never let me be other than I am, and even a pig must live. But you, you can climb out of the quagmire, my dear. The Gascon devil, I would stick my knife in him for nothing. Listen to me now, we must go back to the fire, and wait till the morning. It will be easier to bolt then. You must not risk it in the dark.”
Denise still clung to the darkness, as though it could keep Gaillard at arm’s length. Marpasse scolded her.
“Why, you chicken, you have never learnt how to rule a man! Who is this Gaillard, indeed? I tell you I am not afraid of him, Marpasse is a match for any Gascon.”
She held out her arms, and the Denise she held in them was white-faced, and very earnest.
“You have a knife, Marpasse,” she said, “you can strike me if needs be.”
Marpasse held her close.
“There, now, there, what mad things are you saying?”
But Denise clung to her passionately, looking straight into Marpasse’s eyes.
“Promise to strike with the knife, Marpasse. Promise or I will run, and take my chance.”
And Marpasse promised so far as the knife was concerned, knowing that she would strike Gaillard before she struck Denise.