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Grimbald had Waleran by the shoulders. They heard a short, sharp oath scatter the priest’s whisperings as a puff of wind scatters a handful of feathers.

“Dead!”

There was the sound of heavy breathing.

“Let me alone! Am I a fool of a girl?”

“Patience, brother.”

“Patience be cursed! What is the use of an idiot saint if an arrow between the ribs is too much for her?”

Denise let the boy’s hands fall; Aymery saw her bow her head, and heard her whisper words that he could not catch. Then Waleran came forward, swinging his arms as though to keep off Grimbald who towered beside him like a great ship. Waleran stopped at the foot of the litter, and stood staring at the shield that covered the dead boy’s face. Some impulse drove him to his knees, and he began to feel for the arrow, breathing heavily through set teeth.

Denise’s nearness seemed to come between him and the savage tenderness of a dog for its dead whelp. Her humility and her compassion were not tuned to the cry of nature.

“Get up,” he said. “This is my affair.”