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CHAPTER XIX.
IN THE ORLÉANNAIS.
“But you fear him?”
“Fear him?” Madame St. Lo answered; and, to the surprise of the Countess, she made a little face of contempt. “No; why should I fear him? I fear him no more than the puppy leaping at old Sancho’s bridle fears his tall playfellow! Or than the cloud you see above us fears the wind before which it flies!” She pointed to a white patch, the size of a man’s hand, which hung above the hill on their left hand and formed the only speck in the blue summer sky. “Fear him? Not I!” And, laughing gaily, she put her horse at a narrow rivulet which crossed the grassy track on which they rode.
“But he is hard?” the Countess murmured in a low voice, as she regained her companion’s side.
“Hard?” Madame St. Lo rejoined with a gesture of pride. “Ay, hard as the stones in my jewelled ring! Hard as flint, or the nether millstone—to his enemies! But to women? Bah! Who ever heard that he hurt a woman?”
“Why, then, is he so feared?” the Countess asked, her eyes on the subject of their discussion—a solitary figure riding some fifty paces in front of them.
“Because he counts no cost!” her companion answered.
