Denise was in her room when Gaillard’s men broke into Fulcon’s shop. There was no window looking upon the street, and since Denise was no coward and wished to see what was happening to Fulcon, she opened the door and came out upon the stairway. As she stood there, two of Gaillard’s men caught sight of her, and began to call to her from the street. “See there, the old dog has a pretty daughter.” “Hallo, my dear, come down and be kissed.” Gaillard himself turned his horse, and looked up at Denise. And Gaillard knew her, and she, him. Denise would have fled in and closed the door, but she seemed unable to move, held there by Gaillard’s eyes. The man’s face had flushed at first, but he covered a moment’s sheepishness with a smile like the glitter of sunlight upon brass. Perhaps he saw how Denise shrank from him, and for a woman to shrink from him made Gaillard the more insolent. “Sweet saint,” said he, laughing and looking up at her, “what do we here? Have we grown tired of the beech wood, and Gaffer Aymery, and the Sussex pigs?” Denise closed her eyes, and stood holding the hand-rail of the stair. She heard Gaillard laugh, and the sound of his horse trampling the flints of the street. When she opened her eyes, he was still there below her. And the sight of the man filled her with such sickness and loathing that she turned her head away as she would have turned her head from some brutal deed. “Courage, Sanctissima,” said he, “only ugly women have no friends. Master Flour and Faggots shall be treated gently for your sake. Speak for me in your prayers.” And he called his men about him, and rode away up the street. Denise went into her room, and barred the door, and sitting down on the bed, looked with blank eyes at the walls of the room. A sense of utter helplessness possessed her, so that she could neither pray nor think. So great was her loathing of the man, so poignant her repulsion, that she fell into a fever of unrest that night, and could not sleep because of Gaillard. Denise knew how much pity to expect from a man of Gaillard’s nature; bolts and bars would not avail in the town if the Gascon’s whim sought her out. She felt driven out again into the world, to hide herself, to escape from the very thought of the touch of Gaillard’s hands. By dawn Denise had made up her mind. She would slip out of the town, and throw herself once more into the unknown. Life had so little promise for her, nor was it in her heart to turn nun after what had passed. She was ready to work as a servant for the sake of a home. Denise was not destined to leave Reigate town that day, for Fulcon came climbing up the stairs soon after dawn, and knocked softly at her door. He had been at work that night, perforce, baking bread for Gaillard’s men, but Fulcon had heard news, news that made him grunt exultingly as he laboured. “Child,” he said, “come down into the garden. I have a word for you.”