It turned on a sudden into the primal garden of Paradise. "I came," she loftily explained, "because I considered it my duty to apologize in person for leading you into great danger. Our scouts tell us that already Cazaio is marshalling his men upon the Taunenfels."
"And yet," John Bulmer said, as he arose, and put away his book, "Bellegarde is a strong place. And our good Marquis, whatever else he may be, is neither a fool nor a coward."
Claire shrugged. "Cazaio has ten men to our one. Yet perhaps we can hold out till Gaston comes with his dragoons. And then--well, I have some influence with Gaston. He will not deny me,--ah, surely he will not deny me if I go down on my knees to him and wear my very prettiest gown. Nay, at bottom Gaston is kind, my friend, and he will spare you."
Twice she faltered "No." And then she cried, with a sudden flare of irritation: "I do not love you! I cannot help that. Oh, you--you unutterable bully!"
"But indeed you are a bully. You are trying to bully me into caring for you, and you know it. What else moved you to return to Bellegarde, and to sit here, a doomed man, tranquilly reading? Yes, but you were,--I happened to see you, through the key-hole in the gate. And why else should you be doing that unless you were trying to bully me into admiring you?"
"Because I adore you," said John Bulmer, taking affairs in order; "and because in this noble and joyous history of the great conqueror and excellent monarch, King Arthur, I find much diverting matter; and because, to be quite frank, Claire, I consider an existence without you neither alluring nor possible."
She had noticeably pinkened. "Oh, monsieur," the girl cried, "you are laughing because you are afraid that I will laugh at what you are saying to me. Believe me, I have no desire to laugh. It frightens me, rather. I had thought that nowadays no man could behave with a foolishness so divine. I had thought all such extravagancy perished with the Launcelot and Palomides of your book. And I had thought--that in any event, you had no earthly right to call me Claire."
"Superficially, the reproach is just," he assented, "but what was the name your Palomides cried in battle, pray? Was it not _Ysoude!_ when his searching sword had at last found the joints of his adversary's armor, or when the foe's helmet spouted blood? _Ysoude!_ when the line of adverse spears wavered and broke, and the Saracen was victor? Was it not _Ysoude!_ he murmured riding over alien hill and valley in pursuit of the Questing Beast?--'the glatisant beast'? Assuredly, he cried _Ysoude!_ and meantime La Beale Ysoude sits snug in Cornwall with Tristram, who dons his armor once in a while to roll Palomides in the sand _coram populo_. Still the name was sweet, and I protest the Saracen had a perfect right to mention it whenever he felt so inclined."