- ing. Above the swordhilt the thumb of one hand
was stroking the knuckles of the other carefully. His lean and sallow face stayed changeless.
Says Maugis: "It is a bold stroke—yes. But how do I know it is not some trap for me?"
Horvendile shrugged, and asked: "Have I not served you constantly in the past, messire?"
"You have suggested makeshifts very certainly. And to a pretty pass they have brought me! Here I roost like a starved buzzard, with no recreation save to watch the turrets of Storisende on clear afternoons."
"Where Ettarre prepares to marry Sir Guiron," Horvendile prompted.
"I think of that. . . . She is very beautiful, is she not, Horvendile? And she loves this stately kindly fool who carries his fair head so high and has no reason to hide anything from her. Yes, she is very beautiful, being created perfect by divine malice that she might be the ruin of men. So I loved her: and she did not love me, because I was not worthy of her love. And Guiron is in all things worthy of her. I cannot ever pardon him that, Horvendile."
