Part 18 (1/2)
”Then why,” burst out the husband afresh, ”did you leave me to follow that beast of prey?”
Marguerite brought a sob from her breast which was like a sword through Klussman. He smoothed and smoothed her hair.
”But what did I ever do to thee, Marguerite?”
”I always liked you best,” she said. ”But he was a great lord. The women in barracks are so hateful, and a common soldier is naught.”
”You would be the lady of a seignior,” hissed Klussman.
”Thou knowest I was fit for that,” retorted Marguerite with spirit.
”I know thou wert. It is marrying me that has been thy ruin.” He groaned with his head hanging.
”We are not ruined yet,” she said, ”if you care for me.”
”That was a stranger child?” he repeated.
”All the train knew it to be a motherless child. He had no right to thrust it on me.”
”I demand no testimony of D'Aulnay's followers,” said Klussman roughly.
He let her go from his arms, and stepped to the battlements. His gaze moved over the square of the fortress, and eastward to that blur of whiteness which hinted the enemy's tents, the hint being verified by a light or two.
”I have a word to tell you,” said Marguerite, leaning beside her husband.
”I have this to tell thee,” said the Swiss. ”We must leave Acadia.” His arm again fondled her, and he comforted his sore spirit with an instant's thought of home and peace somewhere.
”Yes. We can go to Pen.o.bscot,” she said.
”Pen.o.bscot?” he repeated with suspicion.
”The king will give you a grant of Pen.o.bscot.”
”The king will give it to--me?”
”Yes. And it is a great seigniory.”
”How do you know the king will do that?”
”He told me to tell you; he promised it.”
”The king? You never saw the king.”
”No.”
”D'Aulnay?”
”Yes.”
”I would I had him by the throat!” burst out Klussman. Marguerite leaned her cheek on the stone and sighed. The bay seemed full of salty spice.