Chivalry

you were Pembroke's squire when long ago he sailed for France to fetch this woman into England—'

'Which you never heard!' Lord Berners shouted at this point. 'Jasper, a lute!' And then he halloaed, more lately, 'Gregory, Madame de Farrington demands that racy song you made against Queen Ysabeau during your last visit.'

Thus did the Queen begin her holiday.

It was a handsome couple which came forward, hand quitting hand a shade too tardily, and the blinking eyes yet rapt; but these two were not overpleased at being disturbed, and the man in particular was troubled, as in reason he well might be, by the task assigned him.

'Is it, indeed, your will, my sister,' he said, 'that I should sing—this song?'

'It is my will,' the Countess said.

And the knight flung back his comely head and laughed. 'What I have written I shall not disown in any company. It is not, look you, of my own choice that I sing, my sister. Yet if she bade me would I sing this song as willingly before Queen Ysabeau, for, Christ aid me! the song is true.'

Sang Sir Gregory:

'Dame Ysabeau, la prophecie 
Que li sage dit ne ment mie, 
Que la royne sut ceus grever 
Qui tantost laquais sot aymer—'

and so on. It was a lengthy ditty and in its wording not oversqueamish; the Queen's career in England was detailed without any stuttering, and you would have found the catalogue unhandsome. Yet Sir Gregory sang it with an incisive gusto, though it seemed to him to countersign his death-warrant; and with the vigor that a mangled snake summons for its last hideous stroke, it seemed to Ysabeau regretful of an ancient spring.

Nicolas gives this ballad in full, but, and for obvious reasons, his translator would prefer to do otherwise.

Only the minstrel added, though Lord Berners did not notice it, a fire-new peroration.

Sang Sir Gregory:

'Ma voix mocque, mon cuer gemit— 
Peu pense a ce que la voix dit, 
Car me membre du temps jadis 
Et d'ung garson, d'amour surpris, 
Et d'une fille—et la vois si— 
Et grandement suis esbahi.'

And when Darrell had ended, the Countess of Farrington, without speaking, swept her left hand toward her cheek and by pure chance caught between thumb and forefinger the autumn-numbed fly that had annoyed her. She drew the little dagger from her girdle and meditatively cut the buzzing thing in two. Then she flung the fragments from her, and resting the dagger's point upon the arm of her chair, one forefinger upon the summit of the hilt, considerately twirled the brilliant weapon.

'This song does not err upon the side of clemency,' she said at last, 'nor by ordinary does Queen Ysabeau.'

'That she-wolf!' said Lord Berners, comfortably. 'Hoo, Madame Gertrude! since the Prophet Moses wrung healing waters from a rock there has been no such miracle recorded.'

'We read, Messire de Berners, that when the she-wolf once acknowledges a master she will follow him as faithfully as any dog. Nay, my brother, I do not question your sincerity, yet you sing with the voice of an unhonored courtier. Suppose Queen Ysabeau had heard your song all through and then had said—for she is not as the run of women—'Messire, I had thought till this there was no thorough man in England saving Roger Mortimer. I find him tawdry now, and—I remember. Come you, then, and rule the England that you love as you may love no woman, and rule me, messire, for I find even in your cruelty—England! bah, we are no pygmies, you and I!'' the Countess said with a great voice; ''yonder is squabbling Europe and all the ancient gold of Africa, ready for our taking! and past that lies Asia, too, and its painted houses hung with bells, and cloud-wrapt Tartary, wherein we twain may yet erect our equal thrones, whereon to receive the tributary emperors! For we are no pygmies, you and I.'' She paused and more lately shrugged. 'Suppose Queen Ysabeau had said this much, my brother?'

Darrell was more pallid, as the phrase is, than a sheet, and the lute had dropped unheeded, and his hands were clenched.

'I would answer, my sister, that as she has found in England but one man, I have found in England but one woman—the rose of all the world.' His eyes were turned at this toward Rosamund Eastney. 'And yet,' the man stammered, 'for that I, too, remember—'

'Nay, in God's name! I am answered,' the Countess said. She rose, in dignity almost a queen. 'We have ridden far to-day, and to-morrow we must travel a deal farther—eh, my brother? I am a trifle overspent, Messire de Berners.' And her face had now the weary beauty of an idol's.

So the men and women parted. Madame de Farrington kissed her brother in leaving him, as was natural; and under her caress his stalwart person shuddered, but not in repugnance; and the Queen went bedward regretful of an ancient spring and singing hushedly.

Sang Ysabeau:

'Were the All-Mother wise, life (shaped anotherwise) 
Would be all high and true; 
Could I be otherwise I had been otherwise 
Simply because of you, 
Who are no longer you. 

'Life with its pay to be bade us essay to be 
What we became,—I believe 
Were there a way to be what it was play to be 
I would not greatly grieve... 
And I neither laugh nor grieve!'

Ysabeau would have slept that night within the chamber of Rosamund Eastney had either slept at all. As concerns the older I say nothing. The girl, though soon aware of frequent rustlings near at hand, lay quiet, half- forgetful of the poisonous woman yonder. The girl was now fulfilled with a great blaze of exultation; to-morrow Gregory must die, and then perhaps she might find time for tears; but meanwhile, before her eyes, the man had flung away a kingdom and life itself for love of her, and the least nook of her heart ached to be a shade more worthy of the sacrifice.

After it might have been an hour of this excruciate ecstasy the Countess came to Rosamund's bed. 'Ay,' the woman hollowly began, 'it is indisputable that his hair is like spun gold and that his eyes resemble sun-drenched waters in June. And that when this Gregory laughs God is more happy. Ma belle, I was familiar with the routine of