Towards the end of that night her brain swam with fatigue. She had had
to study, first Maulfry, second, her new self, third, her old self. In
studying Maulfry she began unconsciously to prepare for the shock to
come--the shock of a free-given faith, than which no crisis can be
more exquisite for a child. So far, however, she had no cause to
distrust her châtelaine's honour, nor even her judgment. Both, she
doubted not, were in Prosper's keeping.
Maulfry was in a gay, malicious humour. She pinched Isoult's cheek
when she met her.
"Tired of waiting, my minion?" she began.
"No, ma'am, I am not tired at all."
"That is well. I went by the eye-shine. So you are still patient for
the great reward! Well, build not too high, my dear. All men are
alike, as I find them."
"My reward is to serve, ma'am, not to win."
"It is a reward one may weary of with time. There may be too much
service where the slave is willing, child. But to win gives an
appetite for more winning; and so the game goes on."
Again, later on, she said-"I should like him to see you tonight, child. He would be more
malleable set near such a fire. Your cheeks are burning bright! As for
your big eyes, I believe you burnish them. Do you know how handsome
you are, I wonder?"
"No one has ever told me that but you, ma'am," said Isoult, demure.
"Pooh, your glass will have told you. They don't lie."
"I never had a glass till I came here. Not even at the convent."
"And did you never get close enough to use somebody's eyes?" said
Maulfry, with a sly look.
Isoult had nothing to say to this. Touch her on the concrete of her
love, and she was always dumb.
"Well then, I will stay flattering you, and advise," Maulfry pursued.
"When that august one chooses to unveil, do you present yourself on
knees as you now are. In two minutes you will not be on your own, but
on his, if I know mankind."
Isoult changed the talk.
"Do you know, or can you tell me, when my lord will come out, ma'am?"
she ventured.
"Come out, child? Out of what? Out of a box?" Maulfry cried in mock
rage. "'Tis my belief you know as much as I do. 'Tis my belief you
have been at a keyhole."
Mockery gave way; the matter was serious.
"Remember now, Isoult, in doing that you will disobey a greater than
I, and as good a friend. And remember what disobedience may mean."
Again she changed her tone in view of Isoult's collapse.
"You look reproaches," she said; "your eyes seem to say, like a
wounded hare's, 'Strike me again. I must quiver, but I will never
run.' So, child, so, I was but half in earnest. You are an obedient
child, and so I will tell Messire, if by any chance I should see him
first." And so on, until they went to bed.