The night before, some thirty “spears” and a company of archers had marched in from Lewes, sent thence by John de Warenne, the Earl. “Since the iron is hot in your parts, sire,” ran the Earl’s message, “I send you a hammer for your anvil. God keep the King.” Peter of Savoy had laughed at the message, and thrown a jewel into Etoile’s lap. “The book tells us that we should go a-hunting,” he had said. “We will send for the Gascon back again. There are lusty rebels to be pulled down when the King’s need is paramount.” Etoile had laughed in turn, with a gleam of black eyes and of white teeth. “Let our horns blow, sire, I too will ride with you.” “A bolt in time saves twine,” quoth her man. When Gaillard returned that morning, and Peter of Savoy heard the news of Dan Barnabo’s death, and the way the mesne lords had called out their men, he smiled at Gaillard very grimly, and twitted him with the little that he had done. “You are clever at lighting bonfires, my Gascon,” he said. “But singeing the bear makes him only madder. We have no need of our clerks and lawyers, for when such work is afoot we can shut justiciar, coroner, and sheriff up in the same box. Will any man tell me that I have no right of private war in my own manors. The King is defied! Go to now, we have our warrant.” Gaillard showed his teeth, and shot a stealthy, swaggering look towards Etoile. “To catch the fox, sire, we must have hounds enough.” “Take them, my boaster, and sweep the countryside. We will ride with you to see the chase.” “And madame, also? We will show her how these pigs of Englishmen can run.” That same evening as the sun sank low, Denise went down to draw water at the spring. The woods were full of a glory of gold, and the chequered shadows of the trees fell upon the brown leaves, and the vivid grass. The gorse seemed lit as for the evening of All Souls. Perfumes rose out of the pregnant earth. A hundred thrushes seemed chanting a vesper song. The heart of Denise also was full of strange, elfin music. There was a smile upon her mouth, and her eyes caught the enchanted distance of dreams. As she drew water at the spring and the ripples of the pool were inset with gold, she sang to herself softly, a song that she had learnt as a young girl, a song of the tower, and not of the cell. Aymery heard her singing as she came across the glade to the gate of the garden. The door of the cell stood open, but Denise had hung her cloak so as to hide the bed. When she came in to him, Aymery watched her with the eyes of a man whose heart is troubled. For he felt the guilt of his presence in that place, and the fairness of Denise had made him afraid. True, she had taken no formal vows, but to the world she was a creature whose very feet made the brown earth holy. “No news of Grimbald?” “None.” Her deep voice thrilled him, but he stirred uneasily upon the bed. “I have gained strength to-day.” “Do not waste it, then, lord,” she answered him.