Denise breathed out the answer that Marpasse was expecting. “But I cannot go! He—is there.” Marpasse, brazen-faced, told the lie of her life. “Messire Aymery? He is so little the worse that he was in the saddle at daybreak, and searching the woods to the west, and half the village with him.” Denise looked into Marpasse’s eyes. “That is the truth?” “Heart of mine, why should I tell you a lie!” Denise seemed to hesitate. She shrank from the sight of any familiar face that morning, and yet her heart reproached her because of Grimbald. The thought was often with her that she might have trusted him more deeply. Marpasse, dreading to seem too eager, put in a frank plea. “Why shun a good friend?” she said; “he would be grieved. The man is no Ursula, God forbid!” Denise surrendered. “I will come,” she said; “but I will see no one but Grimbald.” “Leave it to me, sister; we can keep to the woods.” Marpasse played her part so well that no flicker of suspicion passed over Denise’s face as they made their way across the valley to the priest’s house under the silver birches. Only here and there had they to leave the woodlands to cross a meadow or a piece of the wild common where the villagers pastured their cattle. Denise walked with her hood drawn forward, looking about her wistfully at the hills and valleys that were so familiar, and had been so dear. She felt like a stranger in the Goldspur woods that morning, a bird of passage that passed and left no loneliness in the heart of the land she left. Marpasse talked much upon the way, entering into Denise’s plans as though she were resigned to them, the most loving of hypocrites who lied for the sake of love. She even warned Denise to take care of her long-suffering body. “Two nights without sleep,” she said, “is enough for any woman. Live your life in such a hurry and you will be as thin as a post in three months, with wrinkles all over your face. The pity of it! Like a piece of fine silk left out in the wind and rain.” So they came to Grimbald’s house amid the silver stems of the birches, Marpasse alert and on the watch lest some piece of clumsiness should make her plot miscarry. Denise was shy and wild as an untamed falcon, her brown eyes half afraid of the birch wood, as though Aymery might come riding out with half Goldspur village at his heels. Marpasse saw the look in Denise’s eyes. One clap of the hands and the bird would be skimming on frightened wings. “Courage, sister,” she said, “there is not a soul to be seen. I will keep guard and watch while you are talking with Grimbald. No, the good man will not try to over-persuade you. If I whistle, then you will know that there is danger in the distance.” They entered the porch, Marpasse first, Denise following. “The good man is abed resting that sprained ankle of his. I will see whether he is ready.”