He laughed a little more loudly, his mouth mocking her, his eyes sparkling over the humbling of her pride. The three men began to laugh also. The pother seemed as infectious as the cackling in a farmyard; the dogs opened their mouths, and bayed; the wood became full of stupid, Bacchic mirth. Etoile laughed as loudly as any of the men, yet with a metallic hardness that was not beautiful. “Here is a quaint tale,” she said. “Who is it, the lord of Goldspur, did someone say? She has prayed over him like a saint!” The woman’s shrill laughter stung Denise like the lash of a whip. Her lips moved, but she said nothing. They were all laughing, and looking upon Denise when a man appeared in the doorway of the cell. He was unarmed, with reddened bandages about one shoulder, and his white face blazed out from the shadows as though all the wrath in the world burnt like a torch behind his eyes. There was something so grim and scornful about that face that the men nearest him fell back, silenced, repulsed, crowding upon one another. Aymery came out into the sunlight. He looked right and left, his eyes sweeping the circle of rough faces, and leaving on each the mark of his sharp contempt. Gaillard alone had a smile upon his face. He sat in the saddle with his sword over his shoulder, and pouted out his lips as though to whistle. Denise had not turned her head. Yet it was as though she were trying to look at Aymery without betraying the quest of her brown eyes, for Etoile was watching her with a sneer lifting the corners of her mouth. Aymery glanced up at the Gascon, and then beyond him towards Lord Peter and the lady. Gaillard laughed aloud. “It is our friend who ran away from us two nights ago,” he said. “I hope you were happy, sir, hiding under a lady’s bed.” Aymery’s knees shook under him, and his eyes had turned to grey steel. “If your heart and mouth are foul,” he said, “make no boast thereof, my hireling. God give me the chance some day, and I will choke you with those words.” He held his head high, and looked Gaillard in the eyes. But the strength was ebbing from him; he had lost more blood. Two of the Gascon’s men caught him by the arms as he began to totter. Etoile touched Count Peter with her bow. “The man has courage in him. We have bated him enough.” The lord of the castles smiled like a cynic. “We men are so deserving of pity, we are such fine fellows! Lend him your horse, my desire!” Peter of Savoy laid a hand over his heart, looking at Etoile under half-closed lids as though she were a child to be humoured. He gave Gaillard his orders. A spare horse was led forward, and Aymery lifted into the saddle. He held to the pommel with both hands, trying to steady himself, a confusion of faces before his eyes. “Wine, and I shall not hinder you.”