“Gorlois will break her yet,” quoth one.
“Or bury her.”
“A fit fellow, too,—and a gentleman; why can’t she knuckle to him and play the lady?”
“The woman’s worth three of that chit with the white face; a fine brat ought to come of it.”
Malmain showed her strong white teeth.
“Somehow,” she said, “there’s no more cross-grained creature than a woman with a grievance, especially when she has been baulked of her man. Let a woman speak for a woman, though I break the spirit of her with a whip. There’s less fighting now; by Jesus, you should see her bones staring through her skin.”
Jehan had listened to their talk behind the pile of pikes in the corner. The blatant cynicism of it all chilled him like a March wind. He thought of the sad, strong face, the patient scorn, the youth, the prophetic May of her of whom they spoke. There was a certain terrible realism here that tore the tender bosom of his dreams.
The room stifled him with its smoke and stew. Crawling round by the wall on all fours, he gained the door and crept out unnoticed into the dark. In the sky above the stars were shining. The world seemed big with peace, and the face of the heavens shone mild and clear as the face of God.
Jehan stood under the shadow of the wall and looked at the window high up in the tower. It was black and lustreless, and only the dust of the stars shone up in the vast canopy of gloom. Jehan shook his fist at the dark pile of stone. Then he went up to the roof of the little turret and watched the sea foaming dimly on the rocks below.