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It is like the fire-curtain of a theatre let down between the stage and the audience, a merciful intervention between the mind and the disaster which would consume it. As the years had gone on Maitre Ranulph's nature had grown more powerful, and his outdoor occupation had enlarged and steadied his physical forces. His trouble now was in proportion to the force of his character.
She was playing Ranulph's game, because she instinctively felt that behind this story there was gloom in his mind and mystery in the tale itself. She noticed too that he shrank from her words. She was not very quick of intellect, so she had to feel her way fumblingly. She must have time to think, but she said tentatively: "I suppose it's no secret?
Evidently he did not suspect Ranulph's character as a man of some reputation and the confidential messenger of the King of England. This was a piece of luck. The chance of his being useful to the captives was all the better. With the elaborate meekness proper to his supposed low station he answered, "You leave me no choice, my lord. To resist your will would be suicide, and that is a mortal sin."
"I thought he was tied to a rock and left to drown, by Rullecour's orders." "I had him set free after Rullecour had gone on to the town. He got away to France." Ranulph's anxiety deepened. "He might come back, and then if anything happened to him " "He'd try and make things happen to others, eh? But there's little danger of his coming back. They know he's a traitor, and he knows he'd be hung.
This had been Ranulph's idea as a last resort, for he had a grim wish to foil the law even at the twelfth hour. The great moment had come. The shouts and hootings ceased. Out of the silence there arose only the champing of a horse's bit or the hysterical giggle of a woman. The high painful drone of the chaplain's voice was heard.
Suddenly he was met by a cry of Qui va la! and he stopped short at the point of Elie Mattingley's bayonet. "Hush!" said Ranulph, and gave his name. Mattingley nearly dropped his musket in surprise. He soon knew the tale of Ranulph's misfortunes, but he had not yet been told of his present plans when there came a quick footstep, and Carterette was at her father's side.
"But gache-a-penn, I'm hungry!" And as he ran he began munching a lump of bread he took from his pocket. For the next five minutes they went on in silence. It was quite dark, and as they passed up Market Hill called Ghost Lane because of the Good Little People who made it their highway Dormy caught hold of Ranulph's coat and trotted along beside him.
"That fellow asked what we had here," he said pointing to the panier, "and I told him when the pie was cut he would see." "Good!" laughed the troubadour. "That was a lucky answer, Peirol. And here comes the cook to make the pie." The cook, a stout beady-eyed little man, eyed the two somewhat sulkily, but went away grinning over Ranulph's jokes and fingering Ranulph's generous fee.
"I thought you'd be blithe as a sparrow with your father back from the grave!" Then as Ranulph's face seemed to darken, she added: "He's not worse he's not worse?" "No, no, he's well enough now," he said, forcing a smile. She was not satisfied, but she went on talking, intent to find the cause of his abstraction.
Garcon Carterette! Instantly Carterette sobered down. No one save Ranulph ever called her Garcon Carterette. Guida used Ranulph's name for Carterette, knowing that it would change the madcap's mood. Carterette, to hide a sudden flush, stooped and slowly put on her slipper. Then she came back to the veille, and sat down again beside Guida, saying as she did so: "Yes, I'm gay as a chaffinch me."
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