Bide the Time

Walking the rounds at Hauterive the night of his coming there, a man
sprang out at Prosper from a black entry and stabbed at him between
the shoulders. "For the ravisher of Isoult!" was all the message that
did not miscarry, for Galors' mail of proof stopped the rest. Prosper
whipt round in an instant, but the assassin had made up the passage-
way. There was a quick chase through the break-neck lanes of the steep
little town, then blood told. Prosper ran his man to earth in a
churchyard. He proved to be a red-haired country lout, whose bandy
legs had been against him in this work. He asked for no quarter,
seemed beside himself with rage.

"Friend," said Prosper, "you struck me from behind. You must have
wished to make very sure. Why?"

Said Falve, "Thou ravisher, Galors."

"I cannot be called Galors to my face; politics may go to the devil.
Keep my secret, countryman; I am in Galors' shell, but I will be
Galors no more."

Falve dropped on his knees. "Oh, my lord, my lord--" he began to cry
out.

"Enough of lords," said Prosper. "Some of them do not very lordly, I
grant you. Your words touched me nearly. Be so good as to make
yourself plain. Who is Isoult?"

"Isoult la Desirous, my wife, Messire."

"Your wife!" cried Prosper, grinding his teeth.

"As good as that, my lord. I should have married her in the morning if
my mother hadn't played the Turk on me."

So he had the whole story out of him. Prosper learnt that Isoult had
been put in her way to safety by the old woman, who immediately after
had made that way the most perilous of all--with the best intentions
always.