Isoult chose to speak in the French tongue, mincingly yet railingly, with a gleam far back in her dark eyes. She spoke Breton French, and spoke it fluently, and with a little mischievous lilt that had the sparkle of fine wine. This solemn flapping heron was to be stooped at and struck with the talons, for Margaret Ferrers’ eyes had thrown out the one word that is unforgivable and not to be forgotten. “I am in love with this fair chamber. It is good to smell the spicery, and the herbs, and the salted meat. Madame, it is through no wish of mine that messire, your son, has inflicted me upon you. But he was so obstinate in holding what he had taken!” Margaret Ferrers looked her up and down with glances that slashed the gay clothes to ribbons. She had nothing pleasant to say to Isoult, and being the woman she was she said all that was unpleasant. “Let us understand each other. Some of us go in our proper colours. My house is not an intake, though it must serve as a jail. Have you anything you wish to say?” Isoult’s eyes glittered. “Madame, nothing, save that grey twilight follows a red sunset. Let us not waste words on each other. I am not what you believe; you may not have been what you seem.” She saw the elder woman’s face redden, her nostrils dilate, her mouth grow pinched and thin. “Enough. I will leave you to my kitchen wench. She will bring you your food, and you can vent your sauciness on her; she will know how to answer properly to suit the colour of your gown.” The dame tried to outstare Isoult, but her eyelids flickered, nor did the flush die out of her face till she had relocked the door upon this strolling jade. In the hall she found Fulk throwing some brushwood on the hot ashes of the night’s fire. An instant flash of Margaret Ferrers’ eyes showed her jealous, doubting temper. She strove to become mistress of herself again—the cold woman whose heart had chastened itself through many years of dread and suspense and perilous pride. Fulk looked round sharply, challenging her: “Well, mother?” She made an effort to put the heat of malice out of her mouth, and in the main she succeeded. “I have little that needs saying. Trust a woman to see through a woman. We must feed the jade till the swainmote meets.” “Who is she?” “I neither know nor care.” “Whence has she come?” “I did not ask her. Such wenches come from nowhere and go nowhere, till the Father of Lies takes his own.” The son looked thoughtful. “You are no wiser than when you went in?” “Yes, wiser; wise enough.” He seemed to consider the matter as though all the authority were his. “Give me the key, mother. I must read this rebus.” Her face softened. Some instinct made her afraid, and yet urged her to dissemble her fear, for she was loath to let her son go into Isoult’s chamber. “Do not vex your head about the jade, Fulk. I will see to it.” He said quietly: “Mother, the key.”