rned who this tall
stranger was. The Count of Poictou had ridden into his father's country
and robbed his father's man of his wife. We are ruled by devils in
Normandy, then! There was no immediate pursuit. Saint-Pol knew where to
find him; but (as he told William des Barres) it was useless to go there
without some force.

CHAPTER X

NIGHT-WORK BY THE DARK TOWER

I chronicle wild doings in this place, and have no time for the sweets
of love long denied. But strange as the bridal had been, so the nuptials
were strange, one like the other played to a steel undertone. When
Richard had his Jehane, at first he could not enjoy her. He rode away
with her like a storm; the way was long, the pace furious. Not a word
had passed between them, at least not a reasoned word. Once or twice at
first he leaned forward over her shoulder and set his cheek to her
glowing cheek. Then she, as if swayed by a tide, strained back to him,
and felt his kisses hot and eager, his few and pelting words, 'My
bride--at last--my bride!' and the pressure of his hand upon her heart.
That hand knows what tune the heart drummed out. Mostly she sat up
before him stiff as a sapling, with eyes and ears wide for any hint of
pursuit. But he felt her tremble, and knew she would be glad of him yet.

After all, they had six burning days for a honeymoon, days which made
those three who with them held the tower wonder how such a match could
continue. Richard's love rushed through him like a river in flood, that
brims its banks and carries down bridges by its turbid mass; but hers
was like the sea, unresting, ebbing, flowing, without aim or sure
direction. As is usual with reserved persons, Jehane's transports, far
from assuaging, tormented her, or seemed a torment. She loved uneasily,
by hot and cold fits; now melting, now dry, now fierce in demand, next
passionate in refusal. To snatch of love succeeded repulsion of love.
She would fling herself headlong into Richard's arms, and sob there,
feverish; then, as suddenly, struggle for release, as one who longs to
hide herself, and finding that refused, lie motionless like a woman of
wax. Whether embraced or not, out of touch with him she was desperate.
She could not bear that, but sought (unknown to him) to have hold of
some part of him--the edge of his tunic, the tip of his sword, his
glove--something she must have. Without it she sat quivering, throbbing
all over, looking at him from under her brows and bi