"Perchance the French knight’s wounds have needed too much of my fair mistress’s care," he said maliciously, noting with satisfaction how the shaft went home, from the old man’s sudden start and angry frown. Then, dropping his hesitating manner, he leant forward, speaking slowly but emphatically. "Monsieur," he said softly, "it is in my mind that I should tell you clearly that which I alone have knowledge of; perchance you will blame me for not having spoken sooner, but knightly honour forbade me. Now, however, the necessity seemeth to me greater even than any false sense of magnanimity, seeing that we cross not swords with the viper, but rather crush him under heel before he does us mortal ill, and so——" He paused, to give perhaps greater weight to his words, narrowly watching the stern, set face opposite him, which seemed to have stiffened into an iron mask. "Speak thy mind, man," demanded the old noble curtly. "If there is ill to tell, tell it me—the saints know I have borne such before—but cease to prate of that which is beside the purpose, as is the way with women and fools—not men." "Nay," said de Coray, flushing under the reproof, "there is that to tell which will be hard for you to hear, monsieur, and I would but prepare you for the tale; as you may well guess, it concerneth this Frenchman whom fate, by strange trickery, cast at your gates." De Mereac’s jaw closed with a snap. "He hath satisfied me that he is no spy," he replied sternly. "I have accepted his knightly word, and though it be bitter for me to extend hospitality to the enemy of my country and one of my son’s slayers, still, by all the laws of knighthood and chivalry he goes free as soon as he is fit to travel." "So," said de Coray, "he hath satisfied you, monsieur? That may well be, since he knew not the name of his victim, and yet I may well wonder how he trains his tongue to speak smooth words in a Breton’s ear when he remembereth St Aubin du Cormier." The old man’s face paled. "St Aubin du Cormier?" he murmured. "Yes, St Aubin du Cormier," repeated de Coray, moving a little nearer, as if he feared his words might be overheard. "Listen, monsieur, and you will understand why, at sight of yon dog lying under the greenwood, I cried to you to yield him no mercy, but to mete out to him the dog’s death he deserved." "Speak," said de Mereac hoarsely, "I can ill brook such preamble."