She laughed, fished a loaf out of the wallet, and broke off a crust.
“Do not trouble your head about me, lording,” she said, “go your way. One pull at the bottle, and you shall have your wallet back.”
She took out the flask, drank, and replaced it in the leather bag.
“Good-night to you, lording. We have our own ways to go. Mine is a common track, and I know the tread of my own shoes.”
Aymery still held his horse in hand. He had something to say to Marpasse, and the words did not come to him easily. The woman was more human than Ursula, and his heart went out to her because of Denise. But before he had spoken twenty words, Marpasse broke in with a rough and bitter laugh.
“Lording,” said she, “you cannot make silk out of sackcloth, however much you try. Go your way, I am safe enough on the road. I have a bit of bread here, and I shall sleep soundly under a bush. And to-morrow and the next day, I shall be, just what I have been these five years.”
Aymery’s eyes were still troubled on her behalf. Marpasse shook her hair, and shrugged her shoulders.
“The mule must carry its load, and be given the stick if it kicks, or turns aside. Bah, I know what I am! Denise, there, that was a piece of gold to be picked up out of the dust. Go your way, lording, and do not waste your words. I should only laugh in your face to-morrow, and call you a fool.”
She sat down in the grass and began to eat her bread, ignoring the man on the horse, as though that were the surest way of answering him. There was nothing for Aymery to do but to go, and leave Marpasse to her own road.
“God’s speed, lording,” she said as he turned his horse.