"Lynette, thou wert born in the wrong age!" said Guy. "I do not know in what age thou wert born, but certainly not this."
"And thou wouldst be glad to lose me, Guy!"
"Nay, not glad to lose thee, little one"--I think Guy saw that had hurt me--"but glad for thine own sake. Why, Lynette, crying? For what, dear foolish child?"
I could hardly have told him. Only the world had gone dark and dreary. I know he never meant to be unkind. Oh no! I suppose people don't, generally. They do not find out that they have hurt you, unless you scream. Nor perhaps then, if they are making a noise themselves.
"My dear little sister," said Guy again,--and very lovingly he said it,--"why are all these tears? No man shall marry thee without thy leave. I am surprised. I thought women were always ready to be married."
"And thou art not even curious to hear whom it should have been?"
"What would that matter?" said I, trying to crush back a few more hundreds of tears which would have liked to come. "But tell me if thou wilt."
It flashed on me all at once that Messire Tristan had tried to take the bridle of my horse,[#] when we came from the Church of the Nativity. I might have guessed what was coming.
[#] Then a tacit declaration of love to a lady.
"Does that make any difference?" asked Guy, smiling.
"And the poor fellow is to break his heart?"
"I dare say it will piece again," said I.
Guy laughed, and patted me on the shoulder.
"Come, dry all those tears; there is nothing to cry about. Farewell!"
And away he went, whistling a troubadour song.
Nothing to cry about! Yes, that was all he knew.
I went to my own chamber, sent Bertrade out of it, and finished my cry. Then I washed my face, and when I thought all traces were gone, I went down to my embroidery.
Lady Judith was alone in the bower. She looked up with her usual kind smile as I took the seat opposite. But the smile gave way in an instant to a graver look. Ah! she saw all was not right.
I was silent, and went on working. But in a minute, without any warning, Lady Judith was softly singing. The words struck me.
"'Art thou weary, art thou languid, Art thou sore distressed? 'Come to Me,' saith One, 'and, coming, Be at rest.'
"'Hath He marks to lead me to Him, If He be my Guide?' 'In His feet and hands are wound-prints, And His side.'