Denise, listening to the rhythm of hoofs behind them in the dusk, hated Gaillard for his flamboyant spirit and his arrogance. She held her breath for Aymery’s sake. If Gaillard should kill him! If she should see him beaten, and crushed! She cast frightened brown eyes over Gaillard’s figure, and hated him the more because he seemed so big and lusty. “Hallo, we are coming up fast behind there! The gentleman is very hot, and in a great hurry, Sanctissima! Do you see a wood over yonder. We can make a bed under the trees when we have had our talk with Messire Mead-horn. Beer, Sanctissima, makes these boors hot in the head and quarrelsome.” Denise felt the canter slacken, for Gaillard was drawing in. A swift and inarticulate horror, a vivid sense of what was to follow, seized on her. These two men would be at each other’s throats. And in the dusk and the silence of that night in May she might see lust conquer and strangle love. The dull plodding of hoofs behind them beat a measure in her brain. She would have cried out to Aymery, and could not. And on that hard, brown face under the helmet she imagined a callous and self-assured smile. They neared the trees, masses of fresh foliage hanging motionless under the quiet sky. It would be peaceful, and odorous, and silent in among those trees. Yet their black plumes had a sinister sadness for Denise. They were so calm, and black, and motionless, with never the sound of a night wind in them. Gaillard reined in abruptly, threw a sharp glance over his shoulder, and then pushed Denise roughly from her horse. “Try to run, my minion, and I will ride over you,” he said, “no fool of a mesne lord shall stand in the way of it.” He still had her horse by the halter, and Denise saw him jerk it, so that the beast tossed its head. And the brutal thing that Gaillard did sickened her to the heart, so that she stood still with wide eyes and quivering mouth. For Gaillard had slashed the horse’s throat, and Denise saw the poor beast rear, break free, and then sink on its knees with a smothered sound that was all too human. Denise forgot even the maimed horse with the coming of Aymery out of the dusk. Gaillard had circled round so that he stood between Denise and the trees. He had begun to sing some southern song, throwing his sword from hand to hand, his voice reverberating in his helmet. Denise stood and watched and waited as though her whole soul had withdrawn into her eyes. Aymery was quite close to her, yet she neither moved nor spoke to him. Perhaps she was dazed by the imminent dread of what would follow. Gaillard broke off his song, drew his shield forward, and crowed like a cock. “Good evening, my little gentleman,” he said; “there you are, white cross and all. I will put a red mark on that cross of yours. Ladies are always pleased by a red rose.” Aymery said nothing, but glanced aside at Denise. Then Gaillard came cantering up, tossing his sword, and crowing in his helmet.