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He spoke to Denise, resting his hands on his sword, and looking at the golden orfrays work in her lap. She was leaning against the door-post, her face in the shadow, thought and feeling as intimately one as the rose and the scent of the rose.

“The woods are no longer safe. Peter of Savoy’s riders will be with us again. Waleran will see to that.”

Denise’s brown eyes had a tremor of light in them.

“Have you proved me a coward?”

“We are cowards, Denise, where others are concerned. What do the days promise us? Waleran could not hold his house against those hired swarthies, nor can I mine; I am not fool enough to doubt it. A few arrows bearded with burning tow, the thatch alight, and the smoke and the flames would make us run like rats. It will be war in the woods where our bows can serve us, and where their men-at-arms cannot ride our peasants down.”

Denise did not answer him for a moment. Her hands were turning over the embroidery in her lap.

“I have lived with you all in the sunshine,” she said. “And now that trouble comes you would have me run away!”