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As in her mental maze she sat panting her way to enlightenment, she saw Guida's boat entering the little harbour. Now the truth must be told but how? After her first exclamation of welcome to mother and child, Maitresse Aimable struggled painfully for her voice.
Jean gave a curious cackle, and continued: "Ah, those wasps they have a sting so nasty!" He paused an instant, then he added in a lower voice, and not quite so gaily: "Yon is the way that war begins." Guida's fingers suddenly clinched rigidly upon the tiller. "War? Do do you think that's a French fleet, Maitre Jean?"
Guida's brain was a hundred times clearer than theirs. Danger, peril to her child, had aroused in her every force of intelligence; she had the daring, the desperation of the lioness fighting for her own. Philip himself solved the problem. Turning to the bench of jurats, he said quietly: "She is quite right; the law of Haro is with her. It must apply." The Court was in a greater maze than ever.
It was from the Chevalier's lips he had learned the whole course of Guida's life during the four years of his absence from the island. It was the Chevalier who drew for him pictures of Guida in her new home, none other than the house of Elie Mattingley, which the Royal Court having confiscated now handed over to her as an act of homage.
But the walls of the cottage were dry, for, many years before, Guida's mother had herself seen it built from cellar-rock to the linked initials over the doorway, stone by stone, and every corner of it was as free from damp as the mielles stretching in sandy desolation behind to the Mont es Pendus, where the law had its way with the necks of criminals.
Guida's first impulse was to throw herself into the arms of the slow-tongued, great-hearted woman who hung above her like a cloud of mercy, and tell her whole story. But no, she would keep her word to Philip, till Philip came again. Her love the love of the young, lonely wife, must be buried deep in her own heart until he appeared and gave her the right to speak. Jean was calling to them.
There were others ready also to care for France, to fight for her, to die for her, to struggle towards the hour when the King should come to his own; but there was only one man in the world who could achieve Guida's full justification, and that was himself, Detricand of Vaufontaine. He was glad to turn to the Chevalier's letters from Jersey.
The brisk air of early autumn made the blood tingle in Guida's cheeks. Her eyes were big with light and enjoyment. Her hair was caught close by a gay cap of her own knitting, but a little of it escaped, making a pretty setting to her face. The boat rode under all her courses, until, as Jean said, they had put the last lace on her bonnet.
Carterette was out of breath. She had hurried here from her home. As she said herself, her two feet weren't in one shoe on the way, and that with her news made her quiver with excitement. At first, bursting with mystery, she could do no more than sit and look in Guida's face.
As in her mental maze she sat panting her way to enlightenment, she saw Guida's boat entering the little harbour. Now the truth must be told but how? After her first exclamation of welcome to mother and child, Maitresse Aimable struggled painfully for her voice.
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