She was still in a fever for flight, but more reasonable towards Marpasse. The woman sat down under the hedge, and pulling Denise after her, held her in her arms. “Let me play mother,” quoth she gently, “keep to a whisper, my dear. I know something about trouble.” So with the camp fires about them, and with the sound of trumpets blown madly and at random in the town below, these two women opened their hearts to one another. Denise told Marpasse how Gaillard had served her, how she had seen him that night, how she loathed and feared the man, and Marpasse understood. She was wise, poor wench, in the ways of the world, and Denise’s tale might have been her own in measure. But Marpasse had not been wholly hardened and brutalised by the life she had led. She had the instinct of generosity left in her, and she could be superlatively honest when she was not rebuffed by sneers. Marpasse had an honest fit that night. She told Denise the truth about herself, and knew by Denise’s silence and a certain stiffening of her body that the truth had roused a counter-shock of repulsion. Denise’s instincts recoiled from Marpasse. The woman was sensitive to the change. She drew aside from Denise, and sat with her knees drawn up, and her arms clasped over them. “You are like the rest of the world, sister,” she said, with a laugh on edge with bitterness; “even when we try to be honest, good people spit on us, and draw aside their clothes.” Denise stretched out a hand and touched Marpasse’s shoulder. “It is not that,” she said. “Bah, I am used to it! We are never forgiven, and I want no forgiveness. Fawn and cringe on the godly? To hell with their smug faces! But after all, you and I, my dear——” She stopped, and began to pull at the grass with her hands. Denise’s eyes were shining. “God forgive us both, Marpasse. Sometimes fate is stronger than we are. We are sisters, in that.” Marpasse did not move. It was Denise now who played the comforter. Marpasse did not repel her a second time. “Bah,” said she, “what is the use of talking? The good people will never let me be other than I am, and even a pig must live. But you, you can climb out of the quagmire, my dear. The Gascon devil, I would stick my knife in him for nothing. Listen to me now, we must go back to the fire, and wait till the morning. It will be easier to bolt then. You must not risk it in the dark.” Denise still clung to the darkness, as though it could keep Gaillard at arm’s length. Marpasse scolded her. “Why, you chicken, you have never learnt how to rule a man! Who is this Gaillard, indeed? I tell you I am not afraid of him, Marpasse is a match for any Gascon.” She held out her arms, and the Denise she held in them was white-faced, and very earnest. “You have a knife, Marpasse,” she said, “you can strike me if needs be.” Marpasse held her close. “There, now, there, what mad things are you saying?” But Denise clung to her passionately, looking straight into Marpasse’s eyes.