"Well met, cousin," he called; "you ride fast and early."

Charles eyed him with feverish eyes.

"Truce of God," he said, sulkily, from across the moat. And then: "We
seek a runaway, the child Clotilde."

"I shall make inquiry," said Philip, veiling the twinkle under his heavy
brow. "In such a season many come and go."

But in his eyes Charles read the truth, and breathed with freer breath.

They lowered the drawbridge again with a great creaking of windlass and
chain, and Charles with his head up rode across. But his men-at-arms
stood their horses squarely on the bridge so that it could not be
raised, and Philip smiled into his beard.

Charles dismounted stiffly. He had been a night in the saddle and his
horse staggered with fatigue. In Philip's courtyard, as in his own, were
piled high the Christmas tithes.

"A good year," said Philip agreeably, and indicated the dues. "Peaceful
times, eh, cousin?"

But Charles only turned to see that his men kept the drawbridge open,
and followed him into the house. Once inside, however, he turned on
Philip fiercely.

"I am not here of my own desire. It appears that both my wife and child
find sanctuary with you."