Ursula’s sympathy was purely perfunctory. They had carried Denise into the little infirmary, and laid her upon a bed. She still breathed, and two of the nuns who had some knowledge of leech-craft, had unwound the swathings, but feared to touch the pad that Marpasse had forced into the wound. They had poured oil and a decoction of astringent herbs thereon, wiped the blood-stains from the bosom, and swathed Denise in clean linen. Then they had given her into the hands of the saints, and sat down to watch, whispering to each other across the bed. The slant of the late sunshine came into the room when Aymery entered at the trail of Ursula’s gown. The sunlight struck upon the bed where Denise lay white as a lily with the glory of her hair shining like molten gold. And to Aymery it seemed that she smiled sadly like one dreaming the end of some sad dream. Ursula’s starched wimple creaked in the still room. She stood looking down from a pinnacle of righteousness; the two nuns rose and went to the window, taking care to see all that passed. Their bodies shut off the sunlight from Denise’s face, and threw it into shadow. Aymery was standing beside the bed. The two nuns glanced at one another, and were ready to titter when he knelt down in his battle harness as though praying, or taking some vow. Before he rose he touched one of Denise’s hands, and it was as cold as snow when he laid it against his lips. Ursula made a sharp sound in her throat. Such happenings were not discreet before women who were celibates. Aymery rose and, looking at none of them, marched to the door. “If she lives,” he would have said, “be kind to her until I can return.” But death seemed to hover so close above Denise that he went out in silence, putting all human hope aside. Ursula followed him, debonair by reason of her good birth, and superficially courteous after the habit of such a gentlewoman. Would Aymery take wine and meat? Aymery had the heart for neither, but he remembered Marpasse. Ursula had his wallet filled for him, and he took leave of her, finding little to say to show his gratitude. The old portress had watered his horse, and given the beast a few handfuls of corn. It was growing dusk when Aymery rode out of the gate, and found Marpasse still sitting there on the bench. The figure looked lonely, with a dejected droop of the shoulders, and a hanging of the head. Marpasse’s worldliness was down in the dust that evening. She got up from the bench and made Aymery a reverence. A spirit of bitter mockery possessed her, for the day’s tragedy had hurt Marpasse more than she would confess. Aymery reined in. He said nothing concerning Denise, but held out the wallet that the nuns had filled for him. “There is food there. You must be hungry.” Marpasse’s eyes flashed up at him, and dropped into a hard and sidelong stare. She took the wallet, and stood biting her lower lip. “How are things, yonder?” she blurted.