“Indeed?”

“Ay, indeed!  And indeed, Monsieur!”

Her face was in moonlight, his was in shadow.

“And this is your new tone, Madame, is it?” he said, slowly and after a pregnant pause.  “The crossing of a river has wrought so great a change in you?”

“No!” she cried.

“Yes,” he said.  And, despite herself, she flinched before the grimness of his tone.  “You have yet to learn one thing, however:  that I do not change.  That, north or south, I am the same to those who are the same to me.  That what I have won on the one bank I will hold on the other, in the teeth of all, and though God’s Church be thundering on my heels!  I go to Vrillac—­”

“You—­go?” she cried.  “You go?”

“I go,” he repeated, “to-morrow.  And among your own people I will see what language you will hold.  While you were in my power I spared you.  Now that you are in your own land, now that you lift your hand against me, I will show you of what make I am.  If blows will not tame you, I will try that will suit you less.  Ay, you wince, Madame!  You had done well had you thought twice before you threatened, and thrice before you took in hand to scare Tavannes with a parcel of clowns and fisherfolk.  To-morrow, to Vrillac and your duty!  And one word more, Madame,” he continued, turning back to her truculently when he had gone some paces from her.  “If I find you plotting with your lover by the way I will hang not you, but him.  I have spared him a score of times; but I know him, and I do not trust him.”

“Nor me,” she said, and with a white, set face she looked at him in the moonlight.  “Had you not better hang me now?”

“Why?”

“Lest I do you an injury!” she cried with passion; and she raised her hand and pointed northward.  “Lest I kill you some night, Monsieur!  I tell you, a thousand men on your heels are less dangerous than the woman at your side—­if she hate you.”

“Is it so?” he cried.  His hand flew to his hilt; his dagger flashed out.  But she did not move, did not flinch, only she set her teeth; and her eyes, fascinated by the steel, grew wider.

His hand sank slowly.  He held the weapon to her, hilt foremost; she took it mechanically.

“You think yourself brave enough to kill me, do you?” he sneered.  “Then take this, and strike, if you dare.  Take it—­strike, Madame!  It is sharp, and my arms are open.”  And he flung them wide, standing within a pace of her.  “Here, above the collar-bone, is the surest for a weak hand.  What, afraid?” he continued, as, stiffly clutching the weapon which he had put into her hand, she glared at him, trembling and astonished.  “Afraid, and a Vrillac!  Afraid, and ’tis but one blow!  See, my arms are open.  One blow home, and you will never lie in them.  Think of that.  One blow home, and you may lie in his.  Think of that!  Strike, then, Madame,” he went on, piling taunt