BOOK ELEVENTH.
CHAPTER 1. THE LITTLE SHOE.
(continued)
Tristan, whose face became more sinister with every moment,
addressed the recluse,--
"What have you to say to that?"
She tried to make head against this new incident,
"That I do not know, monseigneur; that I may have been
mistaken. I believe, in fact, that she crossed the water."
"That is in the opposite direction," said the provost, "and
it is not very likely that she would wish to re-enter the city,
where she was being pursued. You are lying, old woman."
"And then," added the first soldier, "there is no boat
either on this side of the stream or on the other."
"She swam across," replied the recluse, defending her
ground foot by foot.
"Do women swim?" said the soldier.
"Tête Dieu! old woman! You are lying!" repeated Tristan
angrily. "I have a good mind to abandon that sorceress
and take you. A quarter of an hour of torture will, perchance,
draw the truth from your throat. Come! You are to follow us."
She seized on these words with avidity.
"As you please, monseigneur. Do it. Do it. Torture. I
am willing. Take me away. Quick, quick! let us set out at
once!--During that time," she said to herself, "my daughter
will make her escape."
"'S death!" said the provost, "what an appetite for the
rack! I understand not this madwoman at all."
An old, gray-haired sergeant of the guard stepped out of
the ranks, and addressing the provost,--
"Mad in sooth, monseigneur. If she released the gypsy, it
was not her fault, for she loves not the gypsies. I have been
of the watch these fifteen years, and I hear her every evening
cursing the Bohemian women with endless imprecations. If
the one of whom we are in pursuit is, as I suppose, the little
dancer with the goat, she detests that one above all the rest."
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