"We are but gloomy folk here, rough soldiers and few women. It has been
in my mind--" Here he saw the Bishop's averted head, and scowled. What
had been in his mind he forgot. He said: "I would have you come
willingly, or not at all."

At that she lifted her head and looked at him. "You know I will come,"
she said. "I can do nothing else, but I do not come willingly, my lord.
You are asking too much."

The Bishop turned his head hopefully.

"Why?"

"You are a hard man, my lord."

If she meant to anger him, she failed. They were not soft days. A man
hid such tenderness as he had under grimness, and prayed in the churches
for phlegm.

"I am a fighting man. I have no gentle ways." Then a belated memory came
to him. "I give no tenderness and ask none. But such kindness as you
have, lavish on the child Clotilde. She is much alone."

With the mention of Clotilde's name came a vision: instead of this
splendid peasant wench he seemed to see the graceful and drooping figure
of the woman he had put away because she had not borne him a son. He
closed his eyes, and the girl, taking it for dismissal, went away.

When he opened them there were only the fire and the dogs about it, and
the Bishop, who was preparing to depart.