Margaret inspected them, and cut a caper.
“Said I not that they were shapely? See what a fine calf I have! I must stuff the shoes a little to make them fit, but otherwise it is perfect. The high collar hides my throat, too, which is well. Would it be well to cut my hair, think ye?”
“No!” gasped Jeanne. “A thousand times, no!”
Margaret pulled off her cap, revealing the dark braids bound round and round her shapely little head.
“It might be safer,” she reflected. “I cannot wear my cap always, and perhaps it might give rise to suspicion. What was it my father said?—‘See thou dost always set about thine affairs thoroughly, and do not the half only of a thing.’ Give me the scissors!”
“Margot, I implore thee, do not! Thy lovely hair! I—I will not countenance it.”
The Countess stood irresolute.
“It—it is—very nice hair,” she said undecidedly. “I doubt it would grow but slowly.”
“Half thy beauty goes with it!” Jeanne said vehemently.
Margaret looked at her seriously.
“Thou dost indeed think that, Jeannette?”
“Yes, yes! Margot, it would be wicked to cut it off!”
“It is to my knees almost. Well, perhaps I will leave it.” On went the cap again. “Wouldst thou know me, Jeanne? Speak truly!”
“Scarcely.” Jeanne walked round her, inspecting. “Thou art suddenly so little. I had thought thee tall.”
“So am I, but this raiment dwarfs me. The face, Jeanne! the face!”
Jeanne stepped back, looking into the Countess’s face with narrowed eyes.
“I should know thee, of course. But mayhap I should need to look twice.”
“Would Simon of Beauvallet know me?”
“They call him the Lynx-Eyed,” Jeanne said dubiously. “And yet—without thy horned headdress, or thy long braids and veil—yes, thou art different.”
“Summon Hélène,” commanded my lady. “I can trust her, and we will see if she knows me at once.”
Jeanne departed, presently returning with Mademoiselle de Courvonne. Margaret was standing before the fire, arms akimbo, and the long point of her cap drawn down over her shoulder, so that it hid the right side of her face a little.
Mademoiselle cast her a fleeting glance, and on encountering a wicked wink, blushed hotly, and turned her back.
“Where is Madame?” she asked Jeanne. “What does the page here?”
Margaret walked forward, striding nobly, and put her arm about Mademoiselle’s waist. The girl recoiled.
“Sirrah!”
“Speak me fair, speak me fair!” Margaret adjured her.
“Madame!” Mademoiselle fell back a pace, hands clasped at her breast. “Madame!”
Margaret swept her a bow.
“Am I not a pretty page, sweet chuck?” she smiled.
“Mon Dieu!” gasped Hélène. “But—but wherefore?”
Margaret told her, and the lady-in-waiting’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. Before she could exclaim or expostulate, however, a knock fell on the door of the adjoining closet.
“Who—? That is not my cousin’s knock, but a … Go, Jeanne!”
Jeanne slipped softly away, closing the door behind her. Margaret tiptoed to it, listening. There came the sound of voices, one deep and forceful.
“Beauvallet!” Margaret slid away from the door. “What can he want?”
Back came Jeanne, and whispered:
“I have told him that you are abed. Get thee between sheets, madame, quickly!”
“But what doth he want?”
“Naught, I think. He hath not seen you this day.”
Margaret pulled her hair down, and skipped into bed, drawing the clothes up under her chin.
“Tell him I am aweary. Why should he wish to see me?”
“I wonder?” said Jeanne, who had her suspicions. She went out again to Simon. “Madame will see you if it is necessary, milor’, but she bids me say that she is aweary.”
“I am sorry to trouble madame,” Simon answered, “but there is that I would say to her.”
“Eh bien!” Jeanne shrugged daintily, and allowed him to pass into the Countess’s chamber.
From the great bed Margaret regarded him haughtily.
“Am I to have no privacy, sir?” she inquired.
Simon, strangely ill-at-ease in these unaccustomed surroundings, bowed, and answered awkwardly.
“I cry your pardon, madame, but I may not see ye tomorrow. I go out to Sal-de-lac, where I shall rest three days. I am come now to say that during mine absence ye will please to keep your rooms. Ye will pardon my discourtesy, but a guard will be set upon these rooms from noon tomorrow, when I depart.”
The Lady Margaret’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“Your insolence passes all bounds, sir!”
Simon smiled.
“Mayhap, madame. Your ladies may come to you, but you may not go out.”
“A prisoner in mine own castle! Get thee hence, Lord of Beauvallet!”
But when Simon had gone, she sprang up, flushed and excited.
“It could not be better! It could not be better! Malvallet will command in his absence, and he would not dare to force himself upon me! None will notice mine escape, and all but Hélène here, and—and—Amélie, or Isabelle, must think that I am sick. Oh, it is marvellous, marvellous! We will leave this place at four in the morning, Jeannette, thou and I!”
“God pity me!” Jeanne sighed, and turned her eyes away from the Lady Margaret’s attire with a shudder.
IX
How the Lady Margaret Escaped
The Lady Margaret tramped blithely along the high road, a knapsack slung over her shoulder, and a staff in her hand. Beside her trudged Mademoiselle Jeanne, very weary, and very nervous. She wore a kerchief over her curls, and a cloak wrapped round her form. She, too, carried a staff, but whereas the Lady Margaret swung hers boldly and stepped out with a will, Jeanne’s little feet stumbled often over the stones, and she leaned heavily on her staff.
“Sister,” said the Lady Margaret, “how many leagues think ye we have covered?”
“An hundred,” Jeanne answered with feeling.
“Nay, I think not. Let me see. We did leave Belrémy at half after four—Jeanne, was it not easy? Not one of those great oafs of English guards suspected, and Lord Simon was nowhere to be seen! Then we walked to Balderin, which is two and a half leagues distant from Belrémy, and it was eight of the clock. How long did we spend at the tavern where we breakfasted?”
“Five minutes,” sighed Jeanne.
“Nay, I think it was half-an-hour.
