Though she was very voluble, Marpasse’s eyes were scanning Denise as one looks at a friend after a long sickness. Marpasse’s eyes were very quick. She could have told the number of wrinkles on Denise’s face, had there been any. But Marpasse saw something there much more sinister than wrinkles. “Well, sister,” said she, “here is indeed a miracle. But I am not so strong as the lord on the black horse, so please to sit on the grass and let me get my breath. Now for the story. How did St. Helena and all the saints heal you, and how do you come to be here?” Denise slipped aside from Marpasse, and sat down at the foot of the tree. It was a hard, brooding look about her eyes that had struck Marpasse. Things had not gone with pious facility. Marpasse could tell that by Denise’s silence, and by the half-sullen expression of her face. “Your knife turned between my ribs, Marpasse,” she said, “I was a fool to bungle so easy a stroke; I had only to lie still, eat and sleep.” Marpasse clapped her hands. “This is gratitude, and I swaddled you up like a baby! How is it that you are not still lying abed, and eating and sleeping? You look thin, eh, and what does Sir Black Horse know about it all? Lord, but what a lot of running away you have done in your life! So you fell out with the pious folk, was that it? I could never abide the smell of a nun.” She pinched Denise’s cheek, watching her narrowly, for Marpasse had learnt to use her wits, and the philosophy that she had learnt upon the road. “Well, my dear, what happened?” “I ran away.” “What a soldier you would make! Madame Ursula was too good a woman. They are all too good for us, my dear; that is where the mischief comes, they tread on us, and expect us to be meek and grateful.” Marpasse grew serious and intent. She looked steadily at Denise, and then reached out and caught her hands. “No more jesting,” she said, “look in my face, sister. I have learnt to read a face.” She held both Denise’s hands, and drew her a little towards her. For a moment they were silent. Then Marpasse pressed Denise’s hands, sighed, and allowed herself a bluff round oath. “Curse them,” she said, “curse their godliness. So you told them the whole tale.” Denise hung her head. “Messire Aymery told Ursula.” “The fool! Too much in love to be wise, I warrant. Come now, my dear, love is great of heart, but love is blind, and love talks when it should shut its mouth. Show me the way out of the wood.” She drew Denise close to her, so that her head was on her shoulder. Yet for the moment Denise seemed cold and mute. Marpasse kissed her on the mouth, and the one woman’s lips unsealed the other’s soul. Before long Marpasse had drawn the whole tale from her, and Marpasse looked fierce over it, and yet more fierce when Denise betrayed the bitterness that had poisoned her heart. “God in Heaven, child,” she broke in suddenly, “do you know what you are saying?”