He had made some amorous tune
Of the laughing light Eros
Snared as Psyche-ward he goes
By your beauty—by your slim,
White, perfect beauty.
“After him
Horace, finding in your eyes
Horace limned in lustrous wise,
Would have made you melodies
Fittingly to hymn your praise,
Sweet Adelais.”
III
Roger is Explicit
Into the midst of the Michaelmas festivities at Halvergate that night, burst a mud-splattered fellow in search of Sir Hugh Vernon. Roger Darke brought him to the knight. The fellow then related that he came from Simeon de Beck, the master of Castle Rising, with tidings that a strange boat, French-rigged, was hovering about the north coast. Let Sir Hugh have a care of his prisoner.
Vernon swore roundly. “I must look into this,” he said. “But what shall I do with Adelais?”
“Will you not trust her to me?” Roger asked. “If so, cousin, I will very gladly be her escort to Winstead. Let the girl dance her fill while she may, Hugh. She will have little heart for dancing after a month or so of Falmouth’s company.”
“That is true,” Vernon assented; “but the match is a good one, and she is bent upon it.”
So presently he rode with his men to the north coast. An hour later Roger Darke and Adelais set out for Winstead, in spite of all Lady Brudenel’s protestations that Mistress Vernon had best lie with her that night at Halvergate.
It was a clear night of restless winds, neither warm nor chill, but fine September weather. About them the air was heavy with the damp odors of decaying leaves, for the road they followed was shut in by the autumn woods, that now arched the way with sere foliage, rustling and whirring and thinly complaining overhead, and now left it open to broad splashes of moonlight, where fallen leaves scuttled about in the wind vortices. Adelais, elate with dancing, chattered of this and that as her gray mare ambled homeward, but Roger was moody.
Past Upton the road branched in three directions; here Master Darke caught the gray mare’s bridle and turned both horses to the left.
“Why, of whatever are you thinking!” the girl derided him. “Roger, this is not the road to Winstead!”
He grinned evilly over his shoulder. “It is the road to Yaxham, Adelais, where my chaplain expects us.”
In a flash she saw it all as her eyes swept these desolate woods. “You will not dare!”
“Will I not?” said Roger. “Faith, for my part, I think you have mocked me for the last time, Adelais, since it is the wife’s duty, as Paul very justly says, to obey.”
Swiftly she slipped from the mare. But he followed her. “Oh, infamy!” the girl cried. “You have planned this, you coward!”
“Yes, I planned it,” said Roger Darke. “Yet I take no great credit therefor, for it was simple enough. I had but to send a feigned message to your blockhead brother. Ha, yes, I planned it, Adelais, and I planned it well. But I deal honorably. Tomorrow you will be Mistress Darke, never fear.”
He grasped at her cloak as she shrank from him. The garment fell, leaving the girl momentarily free, her festival jewels shimmering in the moonlight, her bared shoulders glistening like silver. Darke, staring at her, giggled horribly. An instant later Adelais fell upon her knees.
“Sweet Christ, have pity upon Thy handmaiden! Do not forsake me, sweet Christ, in my extremity! Save me from this man!” she prayed, with entire faith.
“My lady wife,” said Darke, and his hot, wet hand sank heavily upon her shoulder, “you had best finish your prayer before my chaplain, I think, since by ordinary Holy Church is skilled to comfort the sorrowing.”
“A miracle, dear lord Christ!” the girl wailed. “O sweet Christ, a miracle!”
“Faith of God!” said Roger, in a flattish tone; “what was that?”
For faintly there came the sound of one singing.
Sang the distant voice:
“Had your father’s household been
Guelfic-born or Ghibelline,
Beatrice were unknown
On her star-encompassed throne.“For, had Dante viewed your grace,
Adelais, sweet Adelais,
You had reigned in Bice’s place—
Had for candles, Hyades,
Rastaben, and Betelguese—
And had heard Zachariel
Chant of you, and, chanting, tell
All the grace of you, and praise
Sweet Adelais.”
IV
Honor Brings a Padlock
Adelais sprang to her feet. “A miracle!” she cried, her voice shaking. “Fulke, Fulke! to me, Fulke!”
Master Darke hurried her struggling toward his horse. Darke was muttering curses, for there was now a beat of hoofs in the road yonder that led to Winstead. “Fulke, Fulke!” the girl shrieked.
Then presently, as Roger put foot to stirrup, two horsemen wheeled about the bend in the road, and one of them leapt to the ground.
“Mademoiselle,” said Fulke d’Arnaye, “am I, indeed, so fortunate as to be of any service to you?”
“Ho!” cried Roger, with a gulp of relief, “it is only the French dancing-master taking French leave of poor cousin Hugh! Man, but you startled me!”
Now Adelais ran to the Frenchman, clinging to him the while that she told of Roger’s tricks. And d’Arnaye’s face set mask-like.
“Monsieur,” he said, when she had ended, “you have wronged a sweet and innocent lady. As God lives, you shall answer to me for this.”
“Look you,” Roger pointed out, “this is none of your affair, Monsieur Jackanapes. You are bound for the coast, I take it. Very well—ka me, and I ka thee. Do you go your way in peace, and let us do the same.”
Fulke d’Arnaye put the girl aside and spoke rapidly in French to his companion. Then with mincing agility he stepped toward Master Darke.
Roger blustered. “You hop-toad! you jumping-jack!” said he, “what do you mean?”
“Chastisement!” said the Frenchman, and struck him in the face.
“Very well!” said Master Darke, strangely quiet. And with that they both drew.
The Frenchman laughed, high and shrill, as they closed, and afterward he began to pour forth a voluble flow of discourse. Battle was wine to the man.
“Not since Agincourt, Master Coward—hé, no!—have I held sword in hand. It is a good sword, this—a sharp sword, is it not? Ah, the poor arm—but see,
