“There is much companionship to be got from learned men, truly!” he remarked; his blue eyes and white teeth flashed in a half amusement; he put one foot on a chair and balanced his glittering sword across his knee; Theirry averted a bitter gaze from his young splendour, but Balthasar laughed and broke into his song again.
“My heart’s a nun within my breast,
So proud is she, so hard and proud,
Absolving me, she gives me rest” . . .
“We part ways here,” said Theirry.
“So soon?” asked the Knight, then sang indifferently —
“So I blow off my loves like the thistledown.
And ride through the gates of Courtrai town.” . . .
Theirry glanced now at his bright face, smooth yellow hair and gorgeous vestments. “Ay,” he said. “I go to Basle.”
“And I to Frankfort; still, we might have kept company a little longer.”
“I have other plans,” said Theirry shortly.
Balthasar smiled good-humouredly.
“You are not wont to be so evil-tempered,” he remarked.
Then he looked from one to the other; silent both and unresponsive.
“I will even take my leave;” he laid the great glittering sword across the table.
Dirk turned on his stool with the roll of gilding in his hand.
At his cold gaze, that seemed to hold something of enmity and an unfriendly knowledge, Balthasar’s dazzlingly fresh face flushed deeper in the cheeks.
“Since I have been so manifestly unwelcome,” he said, “I will pay for what I have had of you.” Dirk rose.
“You mistake,” he answered. “I have been pleased to see you for many reasons, Balthasar of Courtrai.”
The young Knight thrust his hands into his linked belt and eyed the speaker.
“You condemn me,” he said defiantly. “Well, Theirry is more to your mind —”
He opened his purse of curiously cut and coloured leather, and taking from it four gold coins laid them on the corner of the table.
“So you may buy masses for the soul of Ursula of Rooselaare.” He indicated the money with a swaggering gesture.
“Think you her soul is lost?” queried Dirk.
“A choired saint is glad of prayers,” returned Balthasar. “But you are in an ill mood, master, so good-bye to you and God send you sweeter manners when next we meet.”
He moved to the door, vivid blue and gold and purple; without looking back he flung on his orange hat.
Theirry roused himself and turned with a reluctant interest.
“You are going to Frankfort?” he asked.
“Ay,” Balthasar nodded pleasantly. “I shall see in the town to the hire of a horse and man —— mine own beast being lamed, as you know, Theirry.”
The scholar rose.
“Why do you go to Frankfort?” he asked. He spoke with no object, in a half-sick envy of the Knight’s gaiety and light-heartedness, but Balthasar coloured for the second time.
“All men go to Frankfort,” he answered. “Is not the Emperor there?”
Theirry lifted his shoulders.
“’Tis no matter of mine.”
“Nay,” said Balthasar, who appeared to have been both disturbed and confused by the question, “no more than it is my affair to ask you — why go you to Basle?”
The scholar’s eyes gleamed behind his thick lashes.
“It is very clear why I go to Basle. To study medicine and philosophy.”
They quitted the room, leaving Dirk looking covertly after them, and were proceeding through the dusty, neglected rooms.
“I do not like the place,” said Balthasar. “Nor yet the youth. But he has served my purpose.” And now they were in the hall.
“We shall meet again,” said Theirry, opening the door.
The Knight turned his bright face.
“Like enough,” he answered easily. “Farewell.” With that and a smile he was swinging off across the cobbles, tightening his sword straps.
Against the sun-dried, decayed houses, across the grass-grown square his vivid garments flashed and his voice came over his shoulder through the hot blue air —
“So I blew off my loves like the thistledown And rode through the gates of Courtrai town.”
Theirry watched him disappear round the angle of the houses, then bolted the door and returned to the workroom.
Dirk was standing very much as he had left him, half resting against the table with the roll of gilding in his white fingers.
“What do you know of that man?” he asked as Theirry entered. “Where did you meet him?” “Balthasar?”
“Yea.”
Theirry frowned.
“At his father’s house. I taught his sister music. There was, in a manner, some friendship between us . . . we both wearied of Courtrai . . . so it came we were together. I never loved him.” Dirk returned quietly to the now completely gilded devil.
“Know you anything of the woman he spoke of?” he asked.
“Did he speak of one?”
Dirk looked over his shoulder.
“Yea,” he said; ‘besides, I was thinking of another woman.’ “They were his words.” Theirry sat down; he felt faint and weak.
“I know not. There were so many. As we travelled together he made his prayers to one Ysabeau, but he was secret about her — never his way.”
“Ysabeau,” repeated Dirk. “A common name.”
“Ay,” said Theirry indifferently.
Dirk suddenly raised his hand, and pointed out of the window at the daisies and the broken fountain.
“What had he done if she had been living?” he asked, then without waiting for a reply he began swiftly on another subject.
“I have finished my work. I wished to leave it complete — it was for the church of St. Bavon, but I shall not give it them. Now, we can start when you will.”
Theirry looked up.
“What of your house and goods?” he asked.
“I have thought of that. There are some valuables, some money; these we can take — I shall lock up the house.”
“It will fall into decay.”
“I care not.” With a clear flame of eagerness alight in his eyes he flashed a full glance at Theirry, and, seeing the young scholar pale and drooping, disappointment clouded his face. “Do you commence so slackly?” he demanded. “Are you not eager to be abroad?” “Yea,” answered Theirry. “But —”
Dirk stamped his foot.
“We do not begin with ‘buts’!” he cried passionately. “If you have no heart for the enterprise —”
Theirry half smiled.
“Give me some food, I pray you,” he said. “For I ate but little yesterday.”
Dirk glanced at him.
“I forgot,” he answered, and set about rearranging the remains of the meal