Dusk was beginning to fall when they set off into the woods, Denise upon a grey palfrey that a priest had lent them, Marpasse perched on a mule, Aymery and his men in full battle harness, their spears trailing under the trees. They had a guide with them, a swineherd who knew every path and ride even by night, and though the sun was touching the horizon, they had before them the long twilight of a clear evening in May.
Aymery sent the guide on ahead with the men-at-arms, and Marpasse, knowing what she knew, manœuvred her mule so as to leave Aymery with Denise. But the priest’s palfrey seemed to have conceived a great affection for Marpasse’s mule. Denise had hardly a word to say. She kept close beside Marpasse and appeared blind to the glimmerings of that good woman’s impatience.
Marpasse could bear it out no longer. She struck her mule several resounding smacks with her open hand, and the beast went away at a lazy canter, leaving Denise and the man on the black horse together.
“May God untie their tongues,” Marpasse said to herself; “it is a curse to have too quick a conscience. I shall be hoisted on my own fire unless the man can bring her to reason.”
So Marpasse rode on behind the men-at-arms, leaving the two to work out their own salvation.
The woods were steeped in a green twilight, and a great stillness reigned everywhere, save for the song of the birds. Here and there a great tree stood tongued as with fire. The foliage grew black against the golden glow in the west, while long slants of light still stole in secretly along the solemn aisles. The birds were at their vespers, and a cold dew was falling, drawing out the fresh perfume of the woods at night.
Aymery and Denise were riding side by side, the woman pale, sad-eyed, yet resolute, the man sunk in that deep silence that follows some ineffectual and passionate outburst of the heart. They seemed afraid of one another, nor could they meet each other’s eyes. Denise’s white face might have stood for the moon. And though the birds sang, their voices gave the dusk a sadder and a stranger mystery.
Aymery spoke at last, passing a hand over his horse’s mane.
“Our Lady keep you,” he said, “I will not quarrel with your desire.”
Denise’s lips were dry, and she felt as though the old wound had broken over her heart.