The game was lost and won, and Gaillard had told his news. Peter of Savoy had picked up the lute, and was twanging the strings complacently. Barnabo still pored over the chess-board as though to discover how and where he had been beaten. He was a clever artist in the conception of flattery, yet he was on the alert while Peter of Savoy and Gaillard talked. “Quiet as lambs, to be sure. That will be good news for our friend here. You smoked Waleran out like a fox out of a hole. Excellent Gascon! Fire purifies, so thought the Greeks. There are the folk at Goldspur to be seized—unless they come in with halters round their necks.” The great man hummed a passage from a favourite song. “Barnabo would not be persuaded,” he said, half-closing his eyes slyly. “You must know, my Gaillard, that Barnabo is a man with a hot conscience. He has learnt six words of English—what does that matter? So many benefices to be served—in Latin; so many women to be shrived! Even when the wolves are out—Barnabo will not neglect his duties!” The Italian was imperturbable and debonair. “I have a charm against all wolves,” he said, looking at Gaillard out of the corner of his eyes. “Your sanctity, Father, to be sure. Most excellent St. Francis, the hawks even perch on your shoulders. Barnabo will mount his mule and ride out to comfort the sick, whatever I, his lord, may say.” Gaillard took the gaze-hound up into his lap. “He will have nothing to fear there, now. I will answer for that.” Barnabo’s eyes were studying Gaillard’s face. He smiled, and began to gather up the chess-men. “After the sword come the Cross and the mass book,” he said. “You will not quarrel with my conscience, sire, if I ride out to-morrow.” “Who—in Christendom—is worth the labour of a quarrel? Command your friends, and tread upon your enemies. Go out, and heal the sick, when the husbands are not at home.” Etoile, who had been listening at the door, pulled Gaillard into a dark corner on the stairs when he came out to see to the guards. “So Barnabo is going a-love-making,” she said. “Good. Perhaps he will not come back again.” And she sang to Peter of Savoy that night, a desirable woman whose face betrayed no care. CHAPTER III