"In that event, cousin," he replied, "let the little maid eat and then
take her away. And since it is a Sunday and the Truce of God, we can
drink to the Christmas season. Even quarrelling dogs have intervals of
peace."

So perforce, because the question was still in his heart if not in his
eyes, Charles drank with his cousin and enemy Philip. But with his hand
in that small hand of Clotilde's which was so like her mother's.

Philip's expansiveness extended itself to the men-at-arms who still sat
woodenly on the drawbridge. He sent them hot liquor, for the day was
cold, and at such intervals as Charles' questioning eyes were turned
away, he rubbed his hands together furtively, as a man with a secret.

"A prosperous year," said Philip.

Charles grunted.

"We shall have snow before night," said Philip.

"Humph!" said Charles and glanced toward the sky, but made no move to
go.

"The child is growing."

To this Charles made no reply whatever and Philip bleated on. "Her
mother's body," he said, "but your eyes and hair, cousin."

Charles could stand no more. He pushed the child away and rose to his
feet. Philip, to give him no tithe of advantage, rose too.