“So you ran away—for the last time, hey—when St. George had finished slaying the dragon! That was a mad thing to do, my dear. You should have stopped to succour him, should he have been wounded.”
Denise’s brown eyes searched Marpasse’s face, looking beyond the other’s playfulness.
“Gaillard?” she asked.
“Dead, heart of mine; the best thing that ever he did was to die. Those brown eyes of yours need not look so frightened, St. George has been put to bed to sleep till he is hungry.”
Marpasse sat down under the rose tree, and drew Denise into her lap.
“Try to smile a little, my dear,” she said, “for summer is coming in, and the cuckoo is singing.”
Denise did not rest long in Marpasse’s lap, nor would she touch any of the bread that Marpasse had brought with her. She drew aside in the grass, turned her face away, and sat staring into the shadowy spaces under the trees. Marpasse watched her, and let the mood take its course. She could be patient with Denise as yet, knowing that suffering and sorrow leave the heart sore and easily hurt.
Denise spoke at last in a low voice, still keeping her face hidden from Marpasse.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Down yonder—in the priest’s house.”