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And when Pons had said the name, I knew it at once for the priest, Martinelli, who had been knocking his heels two mortal hours in the room without. When Martinelli was permitted to enter and as he saluted me by title and name, I knew at once my name and all of it. I was Count Guillaume de Sainte-Maure.
And I listened to the lithe, light step of the little intriguing priest go down the creaking stairs. Did I go into the minutiae of detail of all that I saw this half a day and half a night that I was Count Guillaume de Sainte-Maure, not ten books the size of this I am writing could contain the totality of the matter.
Yes; it is indeed a marvellous easy thing to kill a man. We saluted his friends and were about to depart, when Felix Pasquini detained me. "Pardon me," I said. "Let it be to-morrow." "We have but to move a step aside," he urged, "where the grass is still dry." "Let me then wet it for you, Sainte-Maure," Lanfranc asked of me, eager himself to do for an Italian. I shook my head.
But the train was passing the station of Sainte-Maure, and just then a sudden uproar momentarily brought Pierre's attention back to the carriage and its occupants. He fancied that there had been some fresh seizure or swooning, but the suffering faces that he beheld were still the same, ever contracted by the same expression of anxious waiting for the divine succour which was so slow in coming.
"Good fortune go with you," she repeated, and then leaned to me so that she could whisper: "And my heart goes with you, Sainte-Maure. Do not be long. I shall await you in the big hall." I was in the seventh heaven. I trod on air. It was the first frank admittance of her love.
At Sainte-Maure the prayers of the mass were said, and at Sainte-Pierre-des-Corps the "Credo" was chanted. However, the religious exercises no longer proved so welcome; the pilgrims' zeal was flagging somewhat in the increasing fatigue of their return journey, after such prolonged mental excitement.
Already, have I not shown you, my reader, that in previous times, inhabiting various cloddy aggregates of matter, I have been Count Guillaume de Sainte-Maure, a mangy and nameless hermit of Egypt, and the boy Jesse, whose father was captain of forty wagons in the great westward emigration.
Then spoke Philippa, in all the daring spirit and the iron of her. "Satisfy the gentleman's desire, Sainte-Maure. Attend to him now. And good fortune go with you." She paused to beckon to her her uncle, Jean de Joinville, who was passing uncle on her mother's side, of the de Joinvilles of Anjou.
"They are deep and wide, Count Sainte-Maure too deep and wide for me to presume to imagine, much less know or discuss with you or any man." "Oh, I know big things are afoot and slimy worms squirming underground," I said. "They told me you were stubborn-necked, but I have obeyed commands." Martinelli arose to leave, and I arose with him. "I said it was useless," he went on.
At Sainte-Maure the prayers of the mass were said, and at Sainte-Pierre-des-Corps the "Credo" was chanted. However, the religious exercises no longer proved so welcome; the pilgrims' zeal was flagging somewhat in the increasing fatigue of their return journey, after such prolonged mental excitement.
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