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Aymery heard her singing as she came across the glade to the gate of the garden. The door of the cell stood open, but Denise had hung her cloak so as to hide the bed.

When she came in to him, Aymery watched her with the eyes of a man whose heart is troubled. For he felt the guilt of his presence in that place, and the fairness of Denise had made him afraid. True, she had taken no formal vows, but to the world she was a creature whose very feet made the brown earth holy.

“No news of Grimbald?”

“None.”

Her deep voice thrilled him, but he stirred uneasily upon the bed.

“I have gained strength to-day.”

“Do not waste it, then, lord,” she answered him.

His eyes pleaded with her like the eyes of a dog.

“Give me a hand, Denise; I will try if I can stand.”

“No; why, you will but open your wounds again.”

“My thoughts are more to me than my wounds, Denise.”

He struggled up suddenly before she could hinder him, only to turn faint and dizzy, for the blood fell from his brain. He swayed, and went grey as Denise’s gown.