“And a wound—somewhere,” he said.
“Wounds—plenty of them. I am tired, Grimbald—tired as a dog.”
Aymery left his horse to the priest, for it was as much as he could do to steady himself in the saddle by holding to the pommel with both hands. Marpasse came to meet them, and Aymery looked at her stupidly, as though his brain were clouded.
A faint gleam passed across his face as he recognised Marpasse.
“I have killed him,” he said; “yes—it was on the edge of the woods—over yonder.”
He relapsed again into a half stupor, staring at Marpasse with eyes that seemed heavy with sleep.
“Denise?” she asked him.
He echoed her, slowly. Marpasse nodded.
“Denise was with Gaillard—I killed him. She had disappeared when we had ended it,” and he looked at Marpasse as though it was she who was wise in the matter, an appealing look like the appeal of a dumb child.
Grimbald gave Marpasse a most unpriestly wink.