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Charles dismounted stiffly. He had been a night in the saddle and his horse staggered with fatigue. In Philip’s courtyard, as in his own, were piled high the Christmas tithes.

“A good year,” said Philip agreeably, and indicated the dues. “Peaceful times, eh, cousin?”

But Charles only turned to see that his men kept the drawbridge open, and followed him into the house. Once inside, however, he turned on Philip fiercely.

“I am not here of my own desire. It appears that both my wife and child find sanctuary with you.”

“Tut,” said Philip, good-naturedly, “it is the Christmas season, man, and a Sunday. We will not quarrel as to the why of your coming.”

“Where is she?”

“Your wife or Clotilde?”

Now all through the early morning Charles had longed for one as for the other. But there was nothing of that in his voice.

“Clotilde,” he said.

“I shall make inquiry if she has arrived,” mumbled Philip into his beard, and went away.

So it came about that Charles was alone when he saw the child and caught her up in his hungry arms. As for Clotilde, her fear died at once in his embrace. When Philip returned he found them thus and coughed discreetly. So Charles released the child and put her on her feet.

“I have,” said Philip, “another member of your family under my roof as to whom you have made no inquiry.”

“I have secured that for which I came,” said Charles haughtily.

But his eyes were on Philip and a question was in them. Philip, however, was not minded to play Charles’ game, but his own, and that not too fast.

“In that event, cousin,” he replied, “let the little maid eat and then take her away. And since it is a Sunday and the Truce of God, we can drink to the Christmas season. Even quarrelling dogs have intervals of peace.”

So perforce, because the question was still in his heart if not in his eyes, Charles drank with his cousin and enemy Philip. But with his hand in that small hand of Clotilde’s which was so like her mother’s.

Philip’s expansiveness extended itself to the men-at-arms who still sat woodenly on the drawbridge. He sent them hot liquor, for the day was cold, and at such intervals as Charles’ questioning eyes were turned away, he rubbed his hands together furtively, as a man with a secret.

“A prosperous year,” said Philip.

Charles grunted.

“We shall have snow before night,” said Philip.

“Humph!” said Charles and glanced toward the sky, but made no move to go.

“The child is growing.”

To this Charles made no reply whatever and Philip bleated on. “Her mother’s body,” he said, “but your eyes and hair, cousin.”

Charles could stand no more. He pushed the child away and rose to his feet. Philip, to give him no tithe of advantage, rose too.

“Now,” said Charles squarely, “where is my wife? Is she hiding from me?”

Then Philip’s face must grow very grave and his mouth set in sad lines.

“She is ill, Charles. I would have told you sooner, but you lacked interest.”

Charles swallowed to steady his voice.

“How–ill?”

“A short and violent illness,” said Philip. “All of last night the women have been with her, and this morning–” He glanced toward the window. “I was right, as you see, cousin. It is snowing.”

Charles clutched him by the arm and jerked him about. “What about this morning?” he roared.

“Snow on Christmas,” mused Philip, “prophesies another prosperous year.” Then having run his quarry to earth, he showed mercy.

“Would you like to see her?”

Charles swallowed again, this time his pride.

“I doubt if she cares to see me.”

“Probably not,” said Philip. “Still a few words–she is a true woman, and kindly. Also it is a magnanimous season. But you must tread softly and speak fair. This is no time for a high hand.”

Charles, perforce, must promise mildness. He made the concession with poor grace, but he made it. And in Philip’s eyes grew a new admiration for this hulking cousin and enemy, who ate his pride for a woman. At the entrance to an upper room where hung a leather curtain, he stood aside.