“Bailiff,” said he, when they were in
the citadel and all the news out, “I am no friend
of your mistress, as you know; but I am not a thief.
Hauterive is hers. To-morrow morning I shall declare
it so; until then Galors, if you please, is Lord.
Let me now say this,” he continued. “I
admire you because you have a high heart. But
you lack one requisite of generalship, as it appears
to me. You have no head. Get back at once
to Wanmeeting with one thousand of your men, and leave
me five hundred of them to work with. You may
think yourself lucky if you find one stone on another
or one man’s wife as she should be. By
the time you are there you will no doubt have orders
from High March. You may send news thither that
this place is quiet and restored, as from to-morrow
morning, to its allegiance. Good morning, Bailiff”
The Bailiff was very much struck with Prosper’s
sagacity, and went at once. Prosper and his five
hundred men held the citadel.
He confided his secret to those whom he could trust;
the remainder fraternized in the wine shops and dealt
liberally in surmise. The general opinion seemed
to be that Galors had married the Countess Isabel.
* * * *
*
Having thus ridded him of all his charges, Prosper
could steer the ship of his mind whither his soul
had long looked—to Isoult and marriage.
Marriage was become a holy thing, a holy sepulchre
of peace to be won at all costs. No crusader
was he, mind you, fighting for honour, but a pitiful
beaten wayfarer longing for ease from his aching.
He did not seek, he did not know, to account for the
change in him. It had come slowly. Slowly
the girl had transfigured before him, slowly risen
from below him to the level of his eyes; and now she
was above him. He shrined her high as she had
shrined him, but for different reasons as became a
man. What a woman loves in man is strength, what
a man loves in women is also strength, the strength
of weak things. The strength of the weak thing
Isoult had been that, she had known how to hold him
off because of her love’s sake. There is
always pity (which should become reverence) in a man’s
love. He had never pitied her till she fought
so hard for the holiness of her lover.
Oddly enough, Isoult loved him the more for the very
attack which she had foiled. Odd as it may be,
that is where the truth lies. As for him, gratitude
for what she had endured for his sake might go for
nothing. Men do not feel gratitude—they
accept tribute. But if they pity, and their pity
is quickened by knowledge of the pitiful, then they
love. Her pleading lips, her dear startled eyes
stung him out of himself. And then he found out
why her eyes were startled and why her lips were mute.
She was lovely. Yes, for she loved. This
beseeching child, then, loved him. He knew himself
homeless now until she took him in.
