Over the wattle fence, and across the narrow stretch of grass, the eyes of the woman on the white horse met the eyes of Denise. And some instant instinct of enmity seemed to flash between the two, as though—being women—they could read each other’s hearts. Denise saw her turn to Gaillard, and point with her bow in the direction of the cell. The Gascon laughed, and pretended to pray to the cross of his sword. Then he flapped the bridle upon the neck of his horse, and rode forward to speak with Denise. CHAPTER IX Gaillard rode up to the wicket and saw Denise kneeling on the path with weeds and grass tufts scattered along the stones. Paltry, misplaced labour, this, for a woman with such a body and such eyes and hair! Gaillard had his grudge against Denise, and though his impulse was to humble her, he could not forget how the morning sunlight had struck upon her that morning at the pool. “The best of matins to you, Sanctissima,” he said. “I trust that you are rid of your sins as easily as you are rid of those weeds.” Denise rose to her feet, his scoffing voice bringing the colour to her face. The look in Gaillard’s eyes made her hate him, a jeering, masterful, boastful look that showed that he was insolently sure of himself, and knew how to play the bully on occasions. “What would you, messire?” and she felt her face hot under the man’s eyes. Gaillard stared her over, as though he had no high opinion of women, and especially of those who were comely and yet pretended to be righteous. “Holy Sister,” and his eyes looked beyond her towards the cell, “why do you shut your door so close of a May morning?” His red eyes flashed down at her again, and Denise, with a fierce burning of the cheeks, felt that he was watching her, and that her secret might hang upon the tremor of a word. “You are curious over trifles,” she said curtly. “I live alone here after my own fashion. What would you with all your dogs and men?” Gaillard heeled his horse close to the gate. Count Peter, Etoile, and all their company watched and waited. “Come nearer, Sanctissima,” said the Gascon, keeping his eyes fixed upon her face. Denise did not stir. “Come now, saint of the beech woods, put your pride aside, and let us talk together. And keep those eyes of yours from anger. It may be that I can give service for service.” He spoke softly to her, almost suggestively, but Denise hated his smoothness more than his insolence. “I do not understand you, messire,” she said. Gaillard’s eyes grew keen and greedy. “Such a woman as you, my lady, should not be rash in refusing courtesies. Now, if I ask you to open yonder door?” She tried to outstare him, but his eyes seemed to look her innocence through and through. “Say what you please,” she said. “Men fled through the wood here before you came. But I have not meddled in your affairs.”