The Line of Love. Dizain des Mariages

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 
Chaunt of you, and, chaunting, tell 
All the grace of you, and praise 
Sweet Adelais.'

4. 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—he, 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, your blood is quite black-looking in this moonlight, and I had thought cowards yielded a paler blood than brave men possess. We live and learn, is it not? Observe, I play with you like a child,—as I played with your tall King at Agincourt when I cut away the coronet from his helmet. I did not kill him— no!—but I wounded him, you conceive? Presently, I shall wound you, too. My compliments—you have grazed my hand. But I shall not kill you, because you are the kinsman of the fairest lady earth may boast, and I would not willingly shed the least drop of any blood that is partly hers. Ohe, no! Yet since I needs must do this ungallant thing—why, see, monsieur, how easy it is!'

Thereupon he cut Roger down at a blow and composedly set to wiping his sword on the grass. The Englishman lay like a log where he had fallen.

'Lord,' Adelais quavered, 'lord, have you killed him?'

Fulke d'Arnaye sighed. 'Helas, no!' said he, 'since I knew that you did not wish it. See, mademoiselle,—I have but made a healthful and blood-letting small hole in him here. He will return himself to survive to it long time —Fie, but my English fails me, after these so many years—'

D'Arnaye stood for a moment as if in thought, concluding his meditations with a grimace. After that he began again to speak in French to his companion. The debate seemed vital. The stranger gesticulated, pleaded, swore, implored, summoned all inventions between the starry spheres and the mud of Cocytus to judge of the affair; but Fulke d'Arnaye was resolute.

'Behold, mademoiselle,' he said, at length, 'how my poor Olivier excites himself over a little matter. Olivier is my brother, most beautiful lady, but he speaks no English, so that I cannot present him to you. He came to rescue me, this poor Olivier, you conceive. Those Norman fishermen of whom you spoke to-day—but you English are blinded, I think, by the fogs of your cold island. Eight of the bravest gentlemen in France, mademoiselle, were those same fishermen, come to bribe my gaoler,—the incorruptible Tompkins, no less. He, yes, they came to tell me that Henry of Monmouth, by the wrath of God King of France, is dead at Vincennes yonder, mademoiselle, and that France will soon be free of you English. France rises in her might—' His nostrils dilated, he seemed taller; then he shrugged. 'And poor Olivier grieves that I may not strike a blow for her,—grieves that I must go back to Winstead.'

D'Arnaye laughed as he caught the bridle of the gray mare and turned her so that Adelais might mount. But the girl, with a faint, wondering cry, drew away from him.

'You will go back! You have escaped, lord, and you will go back!'

'Why, look you,' said the Frenchman, 'what else may I conceivably do? We are some miles from your home, most beautiful lady,—can you ride those four long miles alone? in this night so dangerous? Can I leave you here alone in this so tall forest? He, surely not. I am desolated, mademoiselle, but I needs must burden you with my company homeward.'

Adelais drew a choking breath. He had fretted out seven years of captivity. Now he was free; and lest she be harmed or her name be smutched, however faintly, he would go back to his prison, jesting. 'No, no!' she cried aloud.

But he raised a deprecating hand. 'You cannot go alone. Olivier here would go with you gladly. Not one of those brave gentlemen who await me at the coast yonder but would go with you very, very gladly, for they love France, these brave gentlemen, and they think that I can serve her better than most other men. That is very flattering, is it not? But all the world conspires to flatter me, mademoiselle. Your good brother, by example, prizes