Aymery rose and, looking at none of them, marched to the door.
“If she lives,” he would have said, “be kind to her until I can return.”
But death seemed to hover so close above Denise that he went out in silence, putting all human hope aside.
Ursula followed him, debonair by reason of her good birth, and superficially courteous after the habit of such a gentlewoman. Would Aymery take wine and meat? Aymery had the heart for neither, but he remembered Marpasse. Ursula had his wallet filled for him, and he took leave of her, finding little to say to show his gratitude. The old portress had watered his horse, and given the beast a few handfuls of corn.
It was growing dusk when Aymery rode out of the gate, and found Marpasse still sitting there on the bench. The figure looked lonely, with a dejected droop of the shoulders, and a hanging of the head. Marpasse’s worldliness was down in the dust that evening.
She got up from the bench and made Aymery a reverence. A spirit of bitter mockery possessed her, for the day’s tragedy had hurt Marpasse more than she would confess.
Aymery reined in. He said nothing concerning Denise, but held out the wallet that the nuns had filled for him.
“There is food there. You must be hungry.”
Marpasse’s eyes flashed up at him, and dropped into a hard and sidelong stare. She took the wallet, and stood biting her lower lip.
“How are things, yonder?” she blurted.