While the horseman was thus reflecting, Triboulet, like an imp, began to dance before them, slapping his crooked knees with his enormous hands.

"A good joke, my master and mistress in motley," he cried. "The king was weak enough to exchange his dwarf for a demoiselle; the latter has fled; the monarch has neither one nor the other; therefore is he, himself, the fool. And thou, mistress, art also worthy of the madcap bells," he added, his distorted face upturned to the jestress.

"How so?" she asked, not concealing the repugnance he inspired.

"Because you prefer a fool's cap to a king's crown," he answered, looking significantly at her companion. "Wherein you but followed the royal preference for head-coverings. Ho! ho! I saw which way the wind blew; how the monarch's eyes kindled when they rested on you; how the wings of Madame d'Etampes's coif fluttered like an angry butterfly. Know you what was whispered at court? The reason the countess pleaded for an earlier marriage for the duke? That the princess might leave the sooner—and take the jestress, her maid, with her. But the king met her manoeuver with another. He granted the favorite's request—but kept the jestress."

"Silence, rogue!" commanded the duke's fool, wheeling his horse toward the dwarf.

"And then for her to turn from a throne-room to a dungeon," went on Triboulet, satirically, as he retreated. "As Brusquet wrote; 'twas:

"'Morbleu! A merry monarch and a jestress fair; A jestress fair, I ween!'—"

But ere the hunchback could finish this scurrilous doggerel of the court, over which, doubtless, many loose witlings had laughed, the girl's companion placed his hand on his sword and started toward the dwarf. The words died on Triboulet's lips; hastily he dodged into a narrow space between two houses, where he was safe from pursuit. Jacqueline's face had become flushed; her lips were compressed; the countenance of the duke's plaisant seemed paler than its wont.

"Little monster!" he muttered.

But the hunchback, in his retreat, was now regarding neither the horseman nor the young girl. His glittering eyes, as if fascinated, rested on the weapon of the plaisant.

"What a fine blade you've got there!" he said curiously. "Much better than a wooden sword. Jeweled, too, by the holy bagpipe! And a coat of arms!"—more excitedly—"yes, the coat of arms of the great Constable of Dubrois. As proud a sword as that of the king. Where did you get it?" And in his sudden interest, the dwarf half-ventured from his place of refuge.

"Answer him not!" said the girl, hastily.

"Was it you, mistress, gave it him?" he asked, with a sudden, sharp look.

Her contemptuous gaze was her only reply.

"By the dust of kings, when last I saw it, the haughty constable himself it was who wore it," continued Triboulet. "Aye, when he defied Francis to his face. I can see him now, a rich surcoat over his gilded armor; the queen-mother, an amorous Dulcinea, gazing at him, with all her soul in her eyes; the brilliant company startled; even the king overawed. 'Twas I broke the spell, while the monarch and the court were silent, not daring to speak."

"You!" From the young woman's eyes flashed a flame of deepest hatred.

The hunchback shrank back; then laughed. "I, Triboulet!" he boasted. "'Ha!' said I, 'he's greater than the king!' whereupon Francis frowned, started, and answered the constable, refusing his claim. Not long thereafter the constable died in Spain, and I completed the jest. 'So,' said I, 'he is less than a man.' And the king, who remembered, laughed."

"Let us go," said the jestress, very white.

Silently the plaisant obeyed, and Triboulet once more ventured forth. "Momus go with you!" he called out after them. And then:

"'Morbleu! A merry monarch and a jestress fair;'"

More quickly they rode on. Furtively, with suppressed rage in his heart, the duke's fool regarded his companion. Her face was cold and set, and as his glance rested on its pale, pure outline, beneath his breath he cursed Brusquet, Triboulet and all their kind. He understood now—too well—the secret of her flight. What he had heretofore been fairly assured of was unmistakably confirmed. The sight of the tavern which they came suddenly upon and the appearance of the innkeeper interrupted this dark trend of thought, and, springing from his horse, the jester helped the girl to dismount.

The house, being situated in the immediate proximity of the grand chateau, received a certain patronage from noble lords and ladies. This trade had given the proprietor such an opinion of his hostelry that common folk were not wont to be overwhelmed with welcome. In the present instance the man showed a disposition to scrutinize too closely the modest attire of the new-comers and the plain housings of their chargers, when the curt voice of the jester recalled him sharply from this forward occupation.

With a shade less of disrespect, the proprietor bade them follow him; rooms were given them, and, in the larger of the two chambers, the plaisant, desiring to avoid the publicity of the dining and tap-room, ordered their supper to be served.

During the repast the girl scarcely spoke; the capon she hardly touched; the claret she merely sipped. Once when she held the glass to her lips, he noticed her hand trembled just a little, and then, when she set down the goblet, how it closed, almost fiercely. Beneath her eyes shadows seemed to gather; above them her glance shone ominously.

"Oh," she said at length, as though giving utterance to some thought, which, pent-up, she could no longer control; "the irony; the tragedy of it!"

"What, Jacqueline?" he asked, gently, although he felt the blood surging in his head.

"'Morbleu! A merry monarch'—"

she began, and broke off abruptly, rising to her feet, with a gesture of aversion, and moving restlessly across the room. "After all these years! After all that had gone before!"

"What has gone before, Jacqueline?"

"Nothing," she answered; "nothing."

For some time he sat with his sword across his knees, thinking deeply. She went to the window and looked out. When she spoke again her voice had regained its self-command.

"A dark night," she said, mechanically.

"Jacqueline," he asked, glancing up from the blade, "why in the crypt that day we escaped did you pause at that monument?"

Quickly she turned, gazing at him from the half-darkness in which she stood.

"Did you see to whom the monument was erected?" she asked in a low voice.

"To the wife of the constable. But what was Anne, Duchess of Dubrois, to you?"

"She was the last lady of the castle," said the girl softly.

Again he surveyed the jeweled emblem on the sword, mocking reminder of a glory gone beyond recall.

"And how was it, mistress, the castle was confiscated by the king?" he continued, after a pause.

"Shall I tell you the story?" she asked, her voice hardening.

"If you will," he answered.

"Triboulet's description of the scene where the constable braved the king, insisting on his rights, was true," she observed, proudly.

"But why had the noble wearer of this sword been deprived of his feudality and tenure?"

"Because he was strong and great, and the king feared him; because he was noble and handsome, and the queen-regent loved him. It was not her hand only, Louise of Savoy, Francis' mother, offered, but—the throne."

"The throne!" said the wondering fool.

Quickly she crossed the room and leaned upon the table. In the glimmer of the candles her face was soft and tender. He thought he had never seen a sweeter or more womanly expression.

"But he refused it," she continued, "for he loved only the memory of his wife, Lady Anne. She, a perfect being. The other—what?"

On her features shone a fine contempt.

"Then followed the endless persecution and spite of a woman scorned," she continued, rapidly. "One by one, his honors were wrested from him. He who had borne the flag triumphantly through Italy was deprived of the government of Milan and replaced by a brother of Madame de Chateaubriant, then favorite of the king. His castle, lands, were confiscated, until, driven to despair, he fled and allied himself with the emperor. 'Traitor,' they called him. He, a Bayard."

A moment she stood, an exalted look on her features; tall, erect; then stepped toward him and took the sword. With a bright and radiant glance she surveyed it; pressed the hilt to her lips, and with both hands held it to her bosom. As if fascinated, the fool watched her. Her countenance was upturned; a moment, and it fell; a dark shadow crossed it; beneath her lashes her eyes were like night.

"But he failed because Charles, the emperor, failed him," she said, almost mechanically, "and broken in spirit, met his death miserably in exile. Yet his cause was just; his memory is dearer than that of a conqueror. She, the queen-mother, is dead; God alone may deal with her."

More composed, she resumed her place in the chair on the other side of the table, the sword across her arm.

"And how came you, mistress," he asked, regarding her closely, "in the pleasure palace built by Francis?"

"When the castle was taken, all who had not fled were a gamekeeper and his little girl—myself. The latter"—ironically—"pleased some of the court ladies. They commended her wit, and gradually was she advanced to the high position she occupied when you arrived," with a strange glance across the board at her listener.

"And the gamekeeper—your father—is dead?"

"Long since."

"The constable had no children?"

"Yes; a girl who, it is believed, died with him in Spain."

The entrance of the servant to remove the dishes interrupted their further conversation. As the door opened, from below came the voices of new-comers, the impatient call of tipplers for ale, the rattle of dishes in the kitchen. Wrapped in the recollections the conversation had evoked, to Jacqueline the din passed unnoticed, and when the rosy-cheeked lass had gone—it was the jester who first spoke.

"What a commentary on the mockery of fate that the sword of such a man, so illustrious, so unfortunate, should be intrusted to a fool!"

"Why," she said, looking at him, her arms on the table, "you drew it bravely, and—once—more bravely—kept it sheathed."

His face flushed. She half smiled; then placed the blade on the board before him.

"There it is."

Above the sword he reached over, as if to place his hand on hers, but she quickly rose. Absently he returned the weapon to his girdle. She took a step or two from him, nervously; lifted her hand to her brow and breathed deeply.

"How tired I feel!" she said.

Immediately he got up. "You are worn out from the journey," he observed, quickly.

But he knew it was not the journey that had most affected her.

"I will leave you," he went on. "Have you everything you need?"

"Everything," she answered carelessly.

He walked to the door. The light was on his face; hers remained shaded.

"Good-night," she said.

"Good-night, Jacqueline, Duchess of Dubrois," he answered, and, turning, disappeared down the corridor.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE DWARF MAKES AN EARLY CALL

From one of the watch-towers of the town rang the clear note of a trumpet, a tribute of melody, occasioned by the awakening in the east. As the last clarion tones reechoed over the sleeping village, a crimson rim appeared above the horizon and soon the entire wheel of the chariot of the sun-god rolled up out of the illimitable abyss and began its daily race across the sky. The stolid bugler yawned, tucked his trumpet under his arm, and, having perfunctorily performed the duties of his office, tramped downward with more alacrity than he had toiled upward.

About the same time the sleepy guard at the town gate was relieved by an equally drowsy-appearing trooper; here and there windows were flung open, and around the well in the small public square the maids began to congregate. In the tap-room of the tavern the landlord moved about, setting to rights the tables and chairs, or sprinkling fresh sand on the floor. The place had a stale, close odor, as though not long since vacated by an inabstinent company, a supposition further borne out by the disorder of the furniture, and the evidence the gathering had not been over-nice about spilling the contents of their toss-pots. The host had but opened the front door, permitting the fresh, invigorating air from without to enter, when the duke's plaisant, his cloak over his arm, descended the stairs, and, addressing the landlord, asked when he and his companion could be provided with breakfast.

"Breakfast!" grumbled the proprietor. "The maids are hardly up and the fires must yet be started. It will be an hour or more before you can be served."

The jester appeared somewhat dissatisfied, but contented himself with requesting the other to set about the meal at once.

"You ride forth early," answered the man, in an aggrieved tone.

The plaisant made no reply as he strode to the door and looked out; noted sundry signs of awakening life down the narrow street, and then returned to the tap-room.

"You had a noisy company here last night, landlord?" he vouchsafed, glancing around the room and recalling the laughter and shouts he had heard below until a late hour.

"Noisy company!" retorted the innkeeper. "A goodly company that ate and drank freely. Distinguished company that paid freely. The king's own guards who are acting as escort to Robert, the Duke of Friedwald, and his bride, the princess. Noisy company, forsooth."

The young man started. "The king's guards!" he said. "What are they doing here?"

The other vigorously rubbed the top of a table with a damp cloth. "Acting as escort to the duke, as I told you," he replied.

"The duke is here, also?"

"Yes; at the chateau. The princess had become weary of travel; besides, had sprained her ankle, I heard, and would have it the cavalcade should tarry a few days. They e'en stopped at my door," he went on ostentatiously, "and called for a glass of wine for the princess. 'Tis true she took it with a frown, but the hardships of journeying do not agree with grand folks."

These last words the jester, absorbed in thought, did not hear. With his back to the man, he stood gazing through the high window, apparently across the street. But between the two houses on the other side of the thoroughfare was a considerable open space, and through this, far away, on the mount, could be seen the chateau. The sunlight shone bright on turret and spire; its walls were white and glistening; its outlines, graceful and airy as a fabric of imagination.

"And yet it was a handsome cavalcade," continued the proprietor, his predilection for pomp overcoming his churlishness. "The princess on a steed with velvet housings, set with precious stones. Her ladies attired in eastern silks. Behind the men of arms; Francis' troops in rich armor; the duke's soldiers more simply arrayed. At the head of the procession rode—"

"Have the horses brought out at once."

Thus brusquely interrupted, the innkeeper stared blankly at his guest, who had left the window and now stood in the center of the room confronting him. "And the breakfast?" asked the man.

"I have changed my mind and do not want it," was the curt response.

The host shrugged his shoulders disagreeably, as the plaisant turned and ascended the stairs. "Unprofitable travelers," muttered the landlord, following with his gaze the retreating figure.

Hastily making his way to the room of the young girl, the jester knocked on the door.

"Are you awake, Jacqueline?"

"Yes," answered a voice within.

"We must ride forth as soon as possible. The duke is at the chateau."

"At the chateau!" she exclaimed in surprise. Then after a pause: "And Triboulet saw us. He will tell that you are here. I will come down at once. Wait," she added, as an afterthought seized her.

He heard her step to the window. "I think the gates of the chateau are open," she said. "I am not sure; it is so far."

"Do you see any one on the road leading down?"

"No," came the answer.

"Nor could I. But perhaps they have already passed."

Again the jester returned to the tap-room, where he found the landlord polishing the pewter tankards.

"The horses?" said the fool sharply.

"The stable boy will bring them to the door," was the response, and the innkeeper held a pot in the air and leisurely surveyed the shining surface.

"The reckoning?"

Deliberately the man replaced the receptacle on the table, and, pressing his thumbs together, began slowly to calculate: "Bottle of wine, ten sous; capon, twenty sous; two rooms—" when the jester took from his coat the purse the young girl had given him, and, selecting a coin, threw it on the board. At the sight of the purse and its golden contents the countenance of the proprietor mollified; his price forthwith varied with his changed estimate of his guest's condition. "Two rooms, fifty sous; fodder, forty sous"—he went on. "That would make—"

"Keep the coin," said the plaisant, "and have the stable boy make haste."

With new alacrity, the innkeeper thrust the pistole into a leathern pouch he carried at his girdle. A guest who paid so well could afford to be eccentric, and if he and the young lady chose to travel without breakfast, it was obviously not for the purpose of economy. Therefore, exclaiming something about "a lazy rascal that needed stirring up," the now interested landlord was about to go to the barn himself, when, with a loud clattering, a party of horsemen rode up to the tavern; the door burst open and Triboulet, followed by a tall, rugged-looking man and a party of troopers, entered the hall.

Swiftly the jester glanced around him; the room had no other door than that before which the troopers were crowded; he was fairly caught in a trap. Remorsefully his thoughts flew to the young girl and the trust she had imposed in him. How had he rewarded that confidence? By a temerity which made this treachery on the part of the hunchback possible. Even now before him stood Triboulet, bowing ironically.

"I trust you are well?" jeered the dwarf, and with a light, dancing step began to survey the other from side to side. "And the lady—is she also well this morning? How pleased you both were to see me yesterday!" assuming an insolent, albeit watchful, pose. "So you believed I had run away from the duke? As if he could get on without me. What would be a honeymoon without Triboulet! The maids of honor would die of ennui. One day they trick me out with true-lovers' knots! the next, give me a Cupid's head for a wand. Leave the duke!" he repeated, bombastically. "Triboulet could not be so unkind."

"Enough of this buffoonery!" said a decisive voice, and the dwarf drew back, not without a grimace, to make room for a person of soldierly mien, who now pushed his way to the front. Over his doublet this gentleman wore a somewhat frayed, but embroidered, cloak; his broad hat was fringed with gold that had lost its luster; his countenance, deeply burned, seemed that of an old campaigner. He regarded the fool courteously, yet haughtily.

"Your sword, sir!" he commanded, in the tone of one accustomed to being obeyed.

"To whom should I give it?" asked the duke's jester.

"To the Vicomte de Gruise, commandant of the town. I have a writ for your arrest as a heretic."

"Who has lodged this information against me?"

"Triboulet. That is, he procured the duke's signature to the writ."

"And you think the duke a party to this farce, my Lord?" said the fool, with assumed composure. "It has not occurred to you that before the day is over all the village will be laughing at the spectacle of their commandant—pardon me—being led by the nose by a jester?"

The officer's sun-burned face became yet redder; he frowned, then glanced suspiciously at Triboulet, whose reputation was France-wide.

"This man was the duke's fool," screamed the dwarf, "and was imprisoned by order of the king. His companion who is here with him was formerly jestress to the princess. She is a sorceress and bewitched the monarch. Then her fancy seized upon the heretic, and, by her dark art, she opened the door of the cell for him. Together they fled; she from the court, he from prison."

The commandant looked curiously from the hunchback to the accused. If this were acting, the dwarf was indeed a master of the art.

"Besides, his haste to leave the village," eagerly went on Triboulet. "Why was he dressed at this hour? Ask the landlord if he did not seem unduly hurried?"

At this appeal the innkeeper, who had been an interested spectator, now became a not unwilling witness.

"It is true he seemed hurried," he answered. "When he first came down he ordered breakfast. I happened to mention the duke was at the chateau, whereupon he lost his appetite with suspicious suddenness, called for his horses, and was for riding off with all haste."

From the commandant's expression this testimony apparently removed any doubts he may have entertained. Above the heads of the troopers massed in the doorway the duke's plaisant saw Jacqueline, standing on the stairs, with wide-open, dark eyes fastened upon him. Involuntarily he lifted his hand to his heart; across the brief space glance melted into glance.

Persecuted Calvin maid—had not her fate been untoward enough without this new disaster? Had not the king wrought sufficient ill to her and hers in the past? Would she be sent back to the court; the monarch? For himself he had no thought, but for her, who was nobler even than her birthright. He had been thrice a fool who had not heeded portentous warnings—the sight of Triboulet, the clamor of the troopers—and had failed to flee during the night. As he realized the penalty of his negligence would fall so heavily upon her, a cry of rage burst from the fool's lips and he sprang toward his aggressors. The young girl became yet whiter; a moment she clung to the baluster; then started to descend the stairs. A dozen swords flashed before her eyes.

She drew in her breath sharply, when as if by some magic, the anger faded from the face of the duke's fool; the hand he had raised to his breast fell to his side; his blade remained sheathed.

"Your pardon, my Lord," he said to the commandant. "I have no intention of resisting the authority of the law, but if you will grant me a few moments' private audience in this room, I promise to convince you the Duke of Friedwald never signed that writ."

"Let him convince the council that examines heretics," laughed Triboulet. "I'll warrant they'll make short work of his arguments."

"I will give you my sword, sir," went on the jester. "Afterward, if you are satisfied, you shall return it to me. If you are not, on my word as a man of honor, I will go with you without more ado."

"A Calvinist, a jester, a man of honor!" cried the dwarf.

But narrowly the vicomte regarded the speaker. "Pardieu!" he exclaimed gruffly. "Keep your sword! I promise you I can look to my own safety." And in spite of Triboulet's remonstrance, he waved back the troopers and closed the door upon the plaisant and himself.

Outside the dwarf stormed and stamped. "The jester is desperate. It is the noble count who is a nonny. Open, fool-soldiers!"

This command not being obeyed by the men who guarded the entrance, the dwarf began to abuse them. A considerable interval elapsed; the hunchback, who dared not go into the room himself, compromised by kneeling before the keyhole; at the foot of the stairs stood the girl, her strained gaze fastened upon the door.

"They must be near the window," muttered Triboulet in a disappointed tone, rising. "What can they be about? Surely will he try to kill the commandant."

But even as he spoke the door was suddenly thrown open and the vicomte appeared on the threshold.

"Clear the hall!" he commanded sharply to the surprised soldiers. "If I mistake not," he went on, addressing the duke's jester, "your horses are at the door."

"You are going to let them go?" burst forth Triboulet.

"I trust you and this fair lady"—turning to the wondering girl, who now stood expectantly at the side of the foreign fool—"will not harbor this incident against our hospitality," went on the vicomte, without heeding the dwarf.

"The king will hang you!" exclaimed Triboulet, his face black with disappointment and rage, as he witnessed the plaisant and the jestress leave the tavern together. "Let them go and you must answer to the king. One is a heretic who threw down a cross; the other I charge with being a sorceress."

A terrible arraignment in those days, yet the vicomte was apparently deaf. Hat in hand, he waved them adieu; the steeds sprang forward, past the soldiers, and down the street.

"After them!" cried the dwarf to the troopers, "Dolts! Joltheads!"

Whereupon one of the men, angered at this baiting, reaching out with his iron boot, caught the dwarf such a sharp blow he staggered and fell, striking his head so violently he lay motionless on the walk. At the same time, far above, a body of troopers might have been seen issuing from the gates of the chateau and leisurely wending their way downward.



CHAPTER XXIV

AN ENCOUNTER AT THE BRIDGE

Some part of the interview with the commandant which had resulted in their release the jester told his companion as they sped down the sloping plain in the early silvery light which transformed the dew-drops and grassy moisture into veils of mist. Behind them the chateau was slowly fading from view; the town had already disappeared. Around them the singing of the birds, the cooing of the cushat doves and the buzzing of the bees, mingled in dreamy cadence. On each side stretched the plain which, washed by recent heavy rains, was now spangled with new-grown flowers; here, far apart in sequestered beauty; there, clustering companionably in a mass of color.

"Upon the strength of the letter from the emperor, the vicomte took the responsibility of allowing us to depart," explained the fool. "In it his Majesty referred to his message to the king, to the part played by him who took the place of the duke, and what he was pleased to term my services to Francis and himself."

So much the plaisant related, but he did not add that the commandant, with Triboulet's words in mind, had at first demurred about permitting the jestress to go. "Vrai Dieu!" that person had exclaimed. "If what the dwarf said be true? To cross the king!—and yet," he had added cynically, "it sounds most unlike. Did Aladdin flee from the genii of the lamp? Such a magician is Francis. Chateaux, gardens—'tis clearly an invention of Triboulet's!" And the fallacy of this conclusion the duke's plaisant had not sought to demonstrate.

Without question, the young girl listened, but when he had finished her features hardened. Intuitively she divined a gap in the narrative; herself! From the dwarf's slur to Caillette's gentle look of surprise constituted a natural span for reflection. And the duke's fool, seeing her face turn cold, attributed it, perhaps, to another reason. Her story recurred to him; she was no longer a nameless jestress; an immeasurable distance separated a mere plaisant from the survivor of one of the noblest, if most unfortunate, families of France. She had not answered the night before when he had addressed her as the daughter of the constable; motionless as a statue had she gazed after him; and, remembering the manner of their parting, he now looked at her curiously.

"All's well that ends well," he said, "but I must crave indulgence, Lady Jacqueline, for having brought you into such peril."

She flushed. "Do you persist in that foolishness?" she returned quickly.

"Do you deny the right to be so called?"

"Did I not tell you—the constable's daughter is dead?"

"To the world! But to the fool—may he not serve her?"

His face was expectant; his voice, light yet earnest. Her answer was half-sad, half-bright, as though her tragedy, like those acted dramas, had its less somber lines. And in the stage versions of those dark, mournful pieces were not the softer bits introduced with cap and bell? The fool's stick and the solemn march of irresistible and lowering destiny went hand in hand. Everywhere the tinkle of the tiny bells.

"Poor service!" she retorted. "A discredited mistress!"

"One I am minded for," he replied, a sudden flash in his eyes.

She looked away; her lips curved.

"For how long?" she said, half-mockingly, and touched her horse before he could reply.

What words had her action checked on his lips? A moment was he disconcerted, then riding after her, he smiled, thinking how once he had carelessly passed her by; how he had looked upon her but as a wilful child.

A child, forsooth! His pulses throbbed fast. Life had grown strangely sweet, as though from her look, when she had stood on the stairs, he had drawn new zest. To serve her seemed a happiness that drowned all other ills; a selfish bond of subordination. Her misfortunes dignified her; her worn gown was dearer in his eyes than courtly splendor; the disorder of her hair more becoming than nets of gold and coifs of jewels. He forgot their danger; the broad plain lay like a pleasure garden before them; fairer in natural beauty than Francis' conventional parks.

And she, too, had ceased to remember the dwarf's words, for the joy of youth is strong, and the sunshine and air were rarely intoxicating. There was a stirring rhythm in the movement of the steeds; noiselessly their hoofs beat upon the soft earth and tender mosses. The rains which elsewhere had flooded the lowlands here but enlivened the vernal freshness of the scene. The air was full of floating thistle-down; a cloud of insects dancing in the light, parted to let them pass.

At the sight of a bush, white with flowers, she uttered an exclamation of pleasure, and broke off a branch covered with fragrant blossoms, as they rode by. Out of the depths of this store-house of sweets a plundering humming-bird flashed and vanished, a jewel from nature's crown! She held the branch to her face and he glanced at her covertly; she was all jestress again. The cadence of that measured motion shaped itself to an ancient lyric in keeping with the song of birds, the blue sky, and the wild roses.

"Hark! hark! Pretty lark! Little heedest thou my pain."

He bent his head listening; he could scarcely hear the words. Was it a sense of new security that moved her; the reaction of their narrow escape; the knowledge they were leaving the chateau and all danger behind them?

"Hark! hark! Pretty lark!—"

Boom! Far in the distance sounded the discharge of a cannon—its iron voice the antithesis to the poet's dainty pastoral. As the report reverberated over the valley, from the grass innumerable insects arose; the din died away; the disturbed earth-dwellers sank back to earth again. The song ceased from the young girl's lips, and, gazing quickly back, she could just distinguish, above one of the parapets of the chateau, a wreath, already nearly dissolved in the blue of the sky. The jester, who had also turned in his saddle, met her look of inquiry.

"It sounds like a signal of some kind—a salute, perhaps," he said.

"Or a call to arms?" she suggested, and he made no answer. "It means—pursuit!"

Silent they rode on, but more rapidly. With pale face and composed mien she kept by his side; her resolute expression reassured him, while her glance said: "Do not fear for me." Gradually had they been descending from the higher slopes of the country of which the chateau-mount was the loftiest point and now were passing through the lower stretches of land.

Here, the highway ran above fields, inundated by recent rains, and marshes converted into shining lakes. Out of the water uprose a grove of trees, spectral-like; screaming wild-fowl skimmed the surface, or circled above. The pastoral peace of the meadows, garden of the wild flower and home of the song-bird, was replaced by a waste of desolation and wilderness. Long they dashed on through the loneliness of that land; a depressing flight—but more depressing than the abandoned and forlorn aspect of the scene was the consciousness that their steeds had become road-worn and were unable to respond. Long, long, they continued this pace, a strained period of suspense, and then the fool drew rein.

"Look, Jacqueline," he said. "The river!"

Before them, fed by the rivulets from the distant hills, the foaming current threatened to overflow its banks. Already the rising waters touched the flimsy wooden structure that spanned the torrent. Contemplatively he regarded it, and then placing his hand for a moment on hers, said encouragingly:

"Perhaps, after all, we are borrowing trouble?"

She shook her head. "If I could but think it," she answered. Something seemed to rise in her throat. "A moment I forgot, and—was not unhappy! But now I feel as though the end was closing about us."

He tightened his grasp. "You are worn with fatigue; fanciful!" he replied.

"The end!" she repeated, passionately. "Yes; the end!" And threw off his hand. "Look!"

He followed her eyes. "Waving plumes!" he cried. "And drawing nearer! Come, Jacqueline! let us ride on!"

"How?" she answered, in a lifeless tone. "The bridge will not hold."

For answer he turned his horse to it; proceeded slowly across. It wavered and bent; her wide-opened eyes followed him; once she lifted her hand to her breast, and then became conscious he stood on the opposite bank, calling her to follow. She started; a strange smile was on her lips, and touching her horse sharply, she obeyed.

"Is it to death he has called me?" she asked herself.

In her ears sounded the swash and eddying of the current; she closed her eyes to keep from falling, when she felt a hand on the bridle, and in a moment had reached the opposite shore. The jester made no motion to remount, but remained at her horse's head, closely surveying the road they had traveled.

"Must we go on?" she said, mechanically.

"Only one of them can cross at a time," he answered, without stirring. "It is better to meet them here."

"Oh," she spoke up, "if the waters would only rise a little more and carry away the bridge."

He glanced quickly around him, weighing the slender chance for success if he made that last desperate stand, and then, grasping a loose plank, began using it as a lever against one of the weakened supports of the bridge. Soon the beam gave way, and the structure, now held but at the middle and one side, had already begun to sag, when from around the curve of the highway appeared Louis of Hochfels, and a dozen of his followers.

The free baron rode to the brim of the torrent, regarded the flood and the bridge, and stopped. He was mounted on a black Spanish barb whose glistening sides were flecked with foam; a cloak of cloth of gold fell from his brawny shoulders; his heavy, red face looked out from beneath a sombrero, fringed with the same metal. A gleam of grim recollection shone from his bloodshot eyes as they rested on the fool.

"Oh, there you are!" he shouted, with savage satisfaction. "Out of the frying-pan into the fire! Or rather—for you escaped the fagots at Notre Dame—out of the fire into the frying-pan!"

Above the tumult of the torrent his stentorian tones were plainly heard. Without response, the jester inserted the plank between the structure and the middle support. The other, perceiving his purpose, uttered an execration that was drowned by the current, and irresolutely regarded the means of communication between the two shores, obviously undetermined about trusting his great bulk to that fragile intermedium. Here was a temporary check on which he had not calculated. But if he demurred about crossing himself, the free baron did not long display the same infirmity of purpose regarding his followers.

"Over with you!" he cried angrily to them. "The lightest first! Fifty pistoles to the first across!" And then, calling out to the fool: "In half an hour, you, my fine wit-cracker, shall be hanging from a branch. As for the maid, she is a witch, I am told—we will test her with drowning."

Tempted by their leader's offer, one of the troopers, a lank, muscular-looking fellow, at once drove the spurs into his horse. Back and forth moved the lever in the hands of the jester; the soldier was midway on the bridge, when it sank suddenly to one side. A moment it acted as a dam, then bridge, horse and rider were swept away with a crash and carried downward with the driving flood. Vainly the trooper sought to turn his steed toward the shore; the debris from the structure soon swept him from his saddle. Striking out strongly, he succeeded in catching a trailing branch from a tree on the bank, but the torrent gripped his body fiercely, and, after a desperate struggle, tore him away.

As his helpless follower disappeared, the free baron gave a brief command, and he and his troops posted rapidly down the bank. The young girl breathed a sigh of relief; her eyes were yet full of awe from the death struggle she had witnessed. Fascinated, her gaze had rested on the drowning wretch; the pale face, the look of terror; but now she was called to a realization of their own situation by the abrupt departure of the squad on the opposite shore.

"They have gone," she cried, in surprise, as the party vanished among the trees.

"But not far." The jester's glance was bent down the stream. "See, where the torrent broadens. They expect to find a fording place."

Once more they set forth; he knowing full well that the free baron and his men, accustomed to the mountain torrents, unbridled by the melting snows, would, in all likelihood, soon find a way to cross the freshet. His mind misgave him that he had loosened the bridge at all. Would it not have been better to force the conflict there, when he had the advantage of position? But right or wrong, he had made his choice and must abide by it.

To add to his discomfiture, his horse, which at first had lagged, now began to limp, and, as they proceeded, this lameness became more apparent. With a twinge of heart, he plied the spur more strongly, and the willing but broken creature responded as best it could. Again it hastened its pace, seeming in a measure to recover strength and endurance, then, without warning, lurched, fell to its knees and quickly rolled over on its side. Jacqueline glanced back; the animal lay motionless; the rider was vainly endeavoring to rise. Pale with apprehension she returned, and, dismounting, stood at the head of the prostrate animal. Determinedly the jester struggled, the perspiration standing on his brow in beads. At length, breathing hard, he rested his head on his elbow.

"Here am I caught to stay, Jacqueline!" he said. "The horse is dead. But you—you must still go on."

With clasped hands she stood looking down at him. She scarcely knew what he was saying; her mind seemed in a stupor; with apathetic eyes she gazed down the road. But the accident had happened in a little hollow, so that the outlook in either direction along the highway was restricted.

"My emperor is both chivalrous and noble," continued the plaisant, quickly. "Go to him. You must not wait here longer. I did not tell you, but I think the free baron will have no difficulty in crossing. You have no time to lose. Go; and—good-by!"

"But—he had a long way to ride—even if he could cross," she said slowly, passing her hand over her brow.

"Jacqueline!" he cried out, impatiently.

She made no motion to leave, and, reading in her face her determination, angered by his own helplessness, he strove violently to release himself, until wrenching his foot in his frantic efforts, he sank back with a groan. At that sound of pain, wrung from him in spite of his fortitude, all her seeming apathy vanished. With a low cry, she dropped on her knees in the road and swiftly took his head in her arms.

It was he, not the young girl, who spoke first. He forgot all peril—hers and his. He only knew her warm, young arms were about him; that her heart was throbbing wildly.

"Jacqueline!" he cried, passionately. "Jacqueline!" And threw an arm about her, drawing her closer, closer.

Did she hear him? She did not reply. Nor did she release him. She did not even look down. But he felt her bosom rising and falling faster than its wont.

"Jacqueline," he repeated, "are you listening?"

She stirred slightly; the pallor left her face. In her gaze shone a light difficult to divine—pity, tenderness, a warmer passion? Where had he seen it before? In the cell when he lay injured; in his waking dreams? It seemed the sudden dawn of the full beauty of her eyes; a half-remembered impression which now became real. Yet even as she looked down his face changed; his eager glance grew dark; he listened intently.

The sound of horses' hoofs beat upon the air.

"Jacqueline!—go!—there is yet time!"

Abruptly she arose. He held out his hand for a last quick pressure; a God-speed to this stanch maid-comrade of the motley.

"God keep you, mistress!"

Standing in the road, gazing up the hollow, she neither saw his hand nor caught his words of farewell. An expression of bewilderment had overspread her features; quickly she glanced in the opposite direction.

"See! see!" she exclaimed, excitedly.

But he was past response; overcome by pain, in a last desperate attempt to regain his feet, he had lost consciousness. As he fell back, above the hill in the direction she was looking, appeared the black plumes of a band of horsemen.

"No; they are not—"

Her glance rested on the jester, lying there motionless, and hastening to his side, she lifted his head and placed it in her lap. So the troopers of the Emperor Charles—a small squad of outriders—found her sitting in the road, her hair disordered about her, her face the whiter against that black shroud.



CHAPTER XXV

IN THE TENT OF THE EMPEROR

On an eminence commanding the surrounding country an unwonted spectacle that same day had presented itself to the astonished gaze of the workers in a neighboring vineyard. Gleaming with crimson and gold, a number of tents had appeared as by magic on the mount, the temporary encampment of a rich and numerous cavalcade. But it was not the splendent aspect of this unexpected bivouac itself so much as the colors and designs of the flags and banners floating above which aroused the wonderment of the tillers of the soil. Here gleamed no salamander, with its legend, "In fire am I nourished; in fire I die," but the less magniloquent and more dreaded coat of arms of the emperor, the royal rival and one-time jailer of the proud French monarch.

The sunlight, reflected from the golden tassels and ornamentation of the tents, threw a flaming menace over the valley, and the peasants in subdued tones talked of the sudden coming of the dreaded foeman. Mere de Dieu! what did it portend! Ventre Saint Gris! were they going to storm the fortresses of the king? Was an army following this formidable retinue of nobles, soldiers and servants?

Above, on the mount, as the sun climbed toward the meridian, was seated in one of the largest of the tents a man of resolute and stern mien who gazed reflectively toward the fertile plain outstretching in the distance. His grizzled hair told of the after-prime of life; he was simply, even plainly, dressed, although his garments were of fine material, and from his neck hung a heavy chain of gold. His doublet lacked the prolonged and grotesque peak, and was less puffed, slashed and banded than the coat worn by those gallants of the day who looked to Italy for the latest extravagances of fashion. His hat, lying carelessly on the table at his elbow, was devoid of aigrette, jewels or plume; a head-covering for the campaign rather than the court. Within reach of his hand stood a heavy golden goblet of massive German workmanship, the solid character of which contrasted with the drinking vessels after Cellini's patterns affected by Francis. This he raised to his lips, drank deeply, replaced the goblet on the table, and said as much to himself as to those around him:

"A fair land, this of our brother! Small wonder he likes to play the host, even to his enemies. We may conquer him on the ensanguined field, but he conquers us—or Henry of England!—on a field of cloth of gold!"

"But for your Majesty to put yourself in the king's power?" ventured a courtier, who wore a begemmed torsade and a cloak of Genoa velvet.

The monarch leaned back in his great chair and his face grew harsh. As he sat there musing, his virility and iron figure gave him rather the appearance of the soldier than the emperor. This impression his surroundings further emphasized, for the walls of the tent were covered, not with the gorgeous-colored Gobelins of the pleasure-loving French, but with severe and stately tapestries from his native Flanders, depicting in somber shades various scenes of martial triumph. When he raised his head he cast a look of ominous displeasure upon the last speaker.

"Had he not once the English king beneath his roof?" answered the monarch. "At Amboise, where we visited Francis some years ago, was there any restraint put upon us?"

A grim smile crossed his features at the recollection of the gorgeous fetes in his honor on that other occasion. Perhaps, too, he thought of the excitements held out by those servitors of the king, the frail and fair ladies of the court, for he added:

"Saints et saintes! 'twas a palace of pleasure, not a dungeon, he prepared for us. But enough of this! It is time we rode on. Let the cavalcade, with the tents, follow behind."

"Think you, your Majesty, if the princess be not yet married to the bastard, she is like to espouse the true duke?" asked the courtier, as a soldier left the tent to carry out the orders of the emperor.

Charles arose abruptly. "Of a surety! He must have loved her greatly, else—"

The clattering of hoofs, drawing nearer, interrupted the emperor's ruminations, and, wheeling sharply, he gazed without. A band of horsemen appeared on the mount.

"The outriders!" he said in surprise. "Why have they returned?"

"They are bearing some one on a litter," answered the attendant noble, "and—cap de Dieu—there is a woman with them!"

As the troops approached, the emperor strode forward. Out in the sunlight his face appeared older, more careworn, but although it cost him an effort to walk, his step was unfaltering. A moment he surveyed the men with peremptory glance, and then, casting one look at their burden, uttered an exclamation. His surprise, however, was of short duration. At once his features resumed their customary rigor.

"What does this mean?" he asked, shortly, addressing the leader of the soldiers. "Is he badly hurt?"

"That I can not say, your Majesty," replied the man. "A horse fell upon his leg, which is badly bruised, and there may be other injuries."

"Where did you find him?" continued the emperor, still regarding the pale face of the plaisant.

"Not far from here, your Majesty. The woman was sitting in the road, holding his head."

Charles' glance swiftly sought the jestress and then returned.

"They were being pursued, for shortly after we came a squad of men appeared from the opposite direction. When they saw us they fled. The woman insisted upon being brought here, when she learned of your Majesty's presence."

"Take the injured man into the next tent and see he has every care. As for the woman, I will speak with her alone."

"Your Majesty's orders to break camp—" began the courtier.

"We have changed our mind and will remain here for the present." And the emperor, without further words, turned and reentered his pavilion.

With his hands behind him, he stood thoughtfully leaning against a table; his countenance had become somber, morose. The twinges of pain from a disease which afterward caused him to abdicate the throne and relinquish all power and worldly vanities for a life of religious meditation began to make themselves felt. Love—ambition—what were they? The perishable flesh—was it the all-in-all? Those sudden pangs of the body seemed like over-forward confessors abruptly admonishing him.

The jester and the woman—Francis and the princess—what had they become to him now? Figures in an intangible, illusory dream. Deeply religious, repentant, perhaps, for past misdeeds at such a moment as this, the soldier-emperor stood before a silver crucifix.

"Credo in sanctum," he murmured, with contrite glance. "How repugnant is human glory! to conquer the earth; to barter what is immortal! Carnis resurrectionem—"

A shadow fell across the tapestry, and glancing from the blessed symbol, he saw before him, kneeling on the rug, the figure of a woman. For her it was an inauspicious interruption. With almost a frown, Charles, recalled from an absorbing period of oblation and self-examination, surveyed the young girl. The reflection of dark colors from the hangings and tapestries softened the pallor of her face; her hair hung about her in disorder; her figure, though meanly garbed, was replete with youth and grace. Silent she continued in the posture of a suppliant.

"Well?" said the monarch finally, in a harsh voice.

Slowly she lifted her head; her dark eyes rested on the ruler steadfastly, fearlessly. "Your Majesty commanded my presence," she answered.

"Who are you?" he asked coldly.

"I am called Jacqueline; my father was the Constable of Dubrois."

Incredulity replaced every other emotion on the emperor's features, and, approaching her, he gazed attentively into the countenance she so frankly uplifted. With calmness she bore that piercing scrutiny; his dark, troubled soul, looking out of his keen gray eyes, met an equally lofty spirit.

"The Constable of Dubrois! You, his daughter!" he repeated.

His thoughts swiftly pierced the shadows of the past; that umbrageous past, darkened with war and carnage; the memory of triumphs; the bitterness of defeats! And studying her eyes, her face, as in a vision he recalled the features, the bearing, of him who had held himself an equal to his old rival, Francis. A red spot rose to his cheek as he reviewed the martial, combative days; the game of arms he had played so often with Francis—and won! Not always by daring, or courage—rather by sagacity, clear-headedness, more potent than any other force!

But a pang of bodily suffering reminded him of the present and its ills, and the vainglory of brief exultation faded as quickly as it had assailed him; involuntarily his glance sought the sacred emblem of intercession. When he regarded her once more his face had resumed its severe, uncompromising aspect.

"The constable was a proud, haughty man," he said, brusquely. "Yea, over-proud, in fact. You know why he fled to me?"

"Yes, Sire," she answered, flushing resentfully.

"To persuade me to espouse his cause against the king. Many times have my good brother, Francis, and myself gone to war," he added, reflectively and not without a certain complacency, "but then were we engaged in troubles in the east; to keep the Mohammedans from overrunning our Christian land. How could I oblige the constable by fighting the heathen and the believers in the gospel in one breath? Your father—for I am ready to believe him such, by the evidence of your face, and, especially, your eyes—accused me of little faith. But I had either to desert him, or Europe. His cause was lost; 'twas the fortune of war; the fate of great families becomes subservient to that of nations."

He spoke as if rather presenting the case to himself than to her; as though he sought to analyze his own action through the medium of time and the trend of larger events. Attentively she watched him with deep, serious eyes, and, catching her almost accusing look and knowing how, perhaps, he shuffled with history, his brow grew darker; he was visibly annoyed at her—his own conscience—he knew not what!

"I did not complain, your Majesty," she said proudly.

Her answer surprised him. Again he observed her attire; the pallor of her face; the dark circles beneath her eyes. Grimly he marked these signs of poverty; those marks of the weariness and privations she had undergone.

"Was it not your intention to seek me? To beg an asylum, perhaps?" he went on, less sternly.

"Not to beg, your Majesty! To ask, yes! But now—not that!"

"Vrai Dieu!" muttered Charles. "There is the father over again! It is strange this maiden clothed almost in rags should claim such illustrious parentage," he continued to himself, as he walked restlessly to and fro. "It is more strange I ask no other proofs than herself—the evidence of my eyes! Where did you come from?" he added, aloud, pausing before her. "The court of Francis?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Why did you leave the king?"

"Why—because—" Her hands clenched. The gray eyes continued to probe her. "Because I hate him!"

The emperor's face relaxed; a gleam of humor shone in his glance. "Hate him whom so many of your sex love?" he replied.

Through her tresses he saw her face turn red; passionately she arose. "With your Majesty's permission, I will go."

"Go?" he said abruptly. "Where can you go? You are somewhat quick of temper, like—. Have I refused you aught? I could not serve your father," he continued, taking her hand, and, not ungently, detaining her, "but I may welcome his daughter—though necessity, the ruler of kings, made me helpless in his behalf!"

As in a flash her resentment faded. Half-paternally, half-severely, he surveyed her.

"Sit down here," he went on, indicating a low stool. "You are weary and need refreshment."

Silent she obeyed, and the emperor, touching a bell, gave a low command to the servitor who appeared. In a few moments meat, fruits and wine were set before her, and Charles, from his point of vantage—no throne of gold, but a chair lined with Cordovan leather, watched her partake. The pains had again left him; the monk gave way to the ruler; he thought of no more phrases of the Credo, but with impassive face listened to her story, or as much as she cared to relate. When she had finished, for some time he offered no comment.

"A strange tale," he said finally. "But what will our nobles do when ladies take mere fools for knight-errants?"

"He is no mere fool!" she spoke up, impulsively.

The emperor shot a quick look at her from beneath his lowering brows.

"I mean—he is brave—and has protected me many times," she explained in some confusion.

"And so you, knowing what you were, remained—with a poor jester—a clown—rather than leave him to his fate?" continued Charles, inexorably, recalling the words of the outriders.

Her face became paler, but she held her head more proudly; the spirit of the jestress sprang to her lips, "It is only kings, Sire, who fear to cling to a forlorn cause!"

His eyes grew dark and gloomy; morosely he bent his gaze upon her. No one had ever before dared to speak to him like that, for Charles had no love for jesters, and kept none in his court. Unsparing, iron-handed, he had gone his way. But, perhaps, in her very fearlessness he recognized a touch of his own inflexible nature. At any rate, his sternness soon gave way to an expression of melancholy.

"God alone knows the hearts of monarchs!" he said, somberly, and directed his glance toward the crucifix.

Moved by his unexpected leniency and the aspect of his cheerlessness, she immediately repented of her response. He looked so old, and melancholy, this great monarch. When he again turned to her his face and manner expressed no further cognizance of her reply.

"You need rest," he said, "and shall have a tent to yourself. Now go!" he continued, placing his hand for a moment, not unkindly, on her head. "I shall give orders for your entertainment. It will be rough hospitality, but—you are used to that. I am not sorry, child, you hate our brother Francis, if it has driven you to our court."



CHAPTER XXVI

THE DEBT OF NATURE

Although the daughter of the constable received every attention commensurate with the cheer of the camp, the day passed but slowly. With more or less interest she viewed the diversified group of soldiers, drawn by Charles from the various countries over which he ruled: the brawny troops from Flanders; the alert-looking guards, recruited from the mountains of Spain; the men of Friedwald, with muscles tough as the fibers of the fir in their native forests. Even the Orient—suggestive of many campaigns!—had been drawn upon, and the bright-garbed olive-skinned attendants, moving among the tents of purple or crimson, blended picturesquely with the more solid masses of color.

For the Flemish soldiery, who had brought the fool and herself to the camp, the young girl had a nod and a word, but it was the men of Friedwald who especially attracted her attention, and unconsciously she found herself picturing the land that had fostered this stalwart and rough soldiery. A rocky, rugged region, surely; with vast forests, unbroken brush! Yonder armorer, polishing a joint of steel, seemed like a survivor of that primeval epoch when the trees were roofs and the ground the universal bed. Once or twice she passed him, curiously noting his great beard and giant-like limbs. But he minded her not, and this, perhaps, gave her courage to pause.

"What sort of country is Friedwald?" she said, abruptly.

"Wild," he answered.

"Is the duke liked?" she went on.

"Yes."

"Do you know his—jester?"

"No."

For all the information he would volunteer, the man might have been Doctor Rabelais' model for laconicism, and a moment she stood there with a slight frown. Then she gazed at him meditatively; tap! tap! went the tiny hammer in the mighty hand, and, laughing softly, she turned. These men of Friedwald were not unpleasing in her eyes.

Twice had she approached the tent wherein lay the fool, only to learn that the emperor was with the duke's plaisant. "A slight relapse of fever," had said the Italian leech, as he blocked the entrance and stared at her with wicked, twinkling eyes. She need be under no apprehension, he had added; but to her quick fancy his glance said: "A maid wandering with a fool!"

Apprehension? No; it could not be that she felt but a new sense of loneliness; of that isolation which contact with strange faces emphasized. What had come over her? she asked herself. She who had been so self-sufficient; whose nature now seemed filled with sudden yearnings and restlessness, impatience—she knew not what. She who thought she had partaken so abundantly of life's cup abruptly discovered renewed sources for disquietude. With welling heart she watched the sun go down; the glory of the widely-radiating hues give way to the pall of night. Upon her young shoulders the mantle of darkness seemed to rest so heavily she bowed her head in her hands.

"A maid and a fool! Ah, foolish maid!" whispered the wanton breeze.

The pale light of the stars played upon her, and the dews fell, until involuntarily shivering with the cold, she arose. As she walked by the emperor's quarters she noticed a figure silhouetted on the canvas walls; to and fro the shadow moved, shapeless, grotesque, yet eloquent of life's vexation of spirit. Turning into her own tent, the jestress lighted the wick of a silver lamp; a faint aroma of perfume swept through the air. It seemed to soothe her—or was it but weariness?—and shortly she threw herself on the silken couch and sank to dreamless slumber.

When she awoke, the bright-hued dome of the tent was aglow in the morning sun; the reflected radiance bathed her face and form; her heaviness of heart had taken wings. The little lamp was still burning, but the fresh fragrance of dawn had replaced the subtile odor of the oriental essence. Upon the rug a single streak of sunshine was creeping toward her. In the brazier which had warmed her tent the glowing bark and cinnamon had turned to cold, white ash.

Through the girl's veins the blood coursed rapidly; a few moments she lay in the rosy effulgence, restfully conscious that danger had fled and that she was bulwarked by the emperor's favor, when a sudden thought broke upon this half-wakeful mood, and caused her to spring, all alert, from her couch. To dress, with her had never been a matter of great duration. The hair of the joculatrix naturally rippled into such waves as were the envy of the court ladies; her supple fingers adjusted garment after garment with swift precision, while her figure needed no device to lend grace to the investment.

Soon, therefore, had she left her tent, making her way through the awakening camp. In the royal kitchen the cook was bending over his fires, while an assistant mixed a beverage of barley-water, yolks of eggs and senna wine for Charles when he should become aroused. Those courtiers, already astir, cast many glances in the girl's direction, as she moved toward the tent of the fool.

But if these gallants were sedulous, she was correspondingly indifferent. Anxiety or loyalty—that stanchness of heart which braved even the ironical eyes of the black-robed master of medicine—drove her again to the ailing jester's tent, and, remembering how she had ridden into camp—and into the august emperor's favor—these fondlings of fortune looked significantly from one to the other.

"A jot less fever, solicitous maid," said the leech in answer to the inquiries of the jestress, and she endured the glance for the news, although the former sent her away with her face aflame.

"An the leech let her in, he'd soon have to let the patient out," spoke up a gallant. "Her eyes are a sovereign remedy, where bolus, pills and all vile potions might fail."

"If this be a sample of Francis' damsels, I care not how long we are in reaching the Low Countries," answered a second.

To this the first replied in kind, but soon had these gallants matters of more serious moment to divert them, for it began to be whispered about that Louis of Hochfels had determined to push forward. The unwonted activity in the camp ere long gave credence to the rumor; the troopers commenced looking to their weapons; squires hurried here and there, while near the tents stood the horses, saddled and bridled, undergoing the scrutiny of the grooms.

Some time, however, elapsed before the emperor himself appeared. Nothing in the bead-roll, or devotional offering of the morning, had he overlooked; the divers dishes that followed had been scrupulously partaken of, and then only—as a man not to be hurried from the altar or the table—had he emerged from his tent. His glance mechanically swept the camp, noting the bustle and stir, the absence of disorder, and finally rested on the girl. For a moment, from his look, it seemed he might have forgotten her, and she who had involuntarily turned to him so solicitously, on a sudden felt chilled, as confronted by a mask. His voice, when at length he spoke, was hard, dry, matter-of-fact, and it was Jacqueline whom he addressed.

"You slept well?"

"Yes, Sire," she answered.

"And have already been to the fool's tent, I doubt not."

The mask became half-quizzical, half-friendly, as her cheeks mantled beneath his regard. Was it but quiet avengement against a jestress whose tongue had been unsparing enough, even to him, the day before? Certes, here stood now only a rosy maid, robbed of her spirit; or a folle, struck witless, and Charles' face softened, but immediately grew stern, as his mind abruptly passed from wandering jestress and fleeing fool to matters of more moment.

Under vow to the Virgin, the emperor had announced he would not draw sword himself that day, but, seated beneath a canopy of velvet, overlooking the valley, he so far compromised with conscience as personally to direct the preparations for the conflict. On his sable throne, surrounded by funereal hangings, how white and furrowed, how harassed with many cares, he appeared in the glare of the morn to the young girl! Was this he who held nearly all Europe in his palm? who between martial commands talked of Holy Orders, the Apostolic See and the Seven Sacraments to his priestly confessor?

And from aloof she studied him, with new doubts and misgiving, her thoughts running fast; and anon bent her eyes to the hill on the other side of the valley. In her condition of mind, confused as before a crisis, it was a distinct relief when toward noon word was brought that the free baron was approaching. Soon, not far distant, the cortege of Louis of Hochfels was seen; at the front, flashing helmets and breastplates; behind, a cavalcade of ladies on horseback and litters, above which floated many flags and banners.

Would he come on; would he turn back? Many opinions were rife.

"Oh," cried a page with golden hair, "there will be no battle after all."

And truly, confronted by the aspect of the emperor's camp, the marauder had at first hesitated; but if the dangers before him were great, those behind were greater. Accordingly, leaving the cavalcade of the princess, her maids and attendants, the free baron of Hochfels, surrounded by his own trusted troops, dashed forward arrogantly into the valley, bent upon sweeping aside even the opposition of Charles himself.

"Yonder's a daring knave, your Majesty," with some perturbation observed the prelate who stood near the emperor's chair.

"Certes, he tilts at fame, or death, with a bold lance," replied Charles. "Would that Robert of Friedwald were there to cry him quits."

While thus he spoke, as calm as though secluded in one of his monastery retreats, weighing the affairs of state, nearer and nearer drew the soldiers of the bastard of Pfalz-Urfeld; roughly calculating, a force numerically as strong as the emperor's own guard.

The young girl, her face now white and drawn, watched the approaching band. Would Charles never give the signal? Imperturbable sat the mounted troopers of the emperor, awaiting the word of command. At length, when her breath began to come fast and sharp, Charles raised his arm. In a solid, steady body, his men swept onward. The girl strove to look away, but could not.

Both bands, gaining in momentum, met with a crash. That nice symmetry of form and orderliness of movement was succeeded by a tangle of men and horses; the bristling array of lances had vanished, and swords and weapons for hand-to-hand warfare threw a play of light amid the jumble of troops and steeds, flags and banners. With sword red from carnage, Louis of Hochfels drew his men around him, hurling them against the firm front of Charles' veterans. It was the crucial moment; the turning point in a struggle that could not be prolonged, but would be rather sharp, short and decisive. If his men failed at the onset, all was lost; if they gained but a little ascendancy now, their mastery of the field became fairly assured. Great would be the reward for success; the fruits of victory—the emperor himself. And savagely the free baron cut down a stalwart trooper; his blade pierced the throat of another.

"Clear the way to Charles!" he cried, exultantly. "He is our guerdon."

So terrible that rush, the guard of Spain on the right and the troops of Flanders on the left began to give way; only the men of Friedwald stood, but with the breaking of the forces on each side it was inevitable they, too, must soon be overwhelmed. Involuntarily, as the quick eye of the emperor detected this sign of impending disaster, he half-started from his chair. His hand sought his side; in his eyes shone a steely light. The prelate quickly crossed himself and raised his head as if in prayer.

"The penance, Sire," he murmured, but his voice trembled.

Mechanically Charles replaced his blade. "Yea; better a kingdom lost," he muttered, "than a broken vow."

Yet, after so many battles won in the field and Diet; after titanic contests with kings in Christendom, and Solyman in the east, to fall, by the mockery of fate, into the grasp of a thieving mountain rifler—

"Ambition! power! we sow but the sand," whispered satiety.

"Vainglory is a sleeveless errand," murmured the spirit of the flagellant.

Yet he gazed half-fiercely at his priestly adviser, when suddenly his gloomy eye brightened; the inutility of ambition was forgotten; unconsciously he clasped the arm of the joculatrix, who had drawn near. His grip was like a gauntlet; even in her tense, strained mood she winced.

"The fight is not yet lost!" he exclaimed. As he spoke the figure of a knight, fully armed, who had made his way through the avenue of tents, was seen swiftly descending the hill. Upon his strong Arabian steed, the rider's appearance and bearing signaled him as a soldier apart from the rank and file of the guard. His coat-of-arms, that of the house of Friedwald, was richly emblazoned upon the housings of his courser. Whence had he come? The attendants and equerries had not seen him in the camp. Only the taciturn armorer of Friedwald looked complacently after him, stroking his great beard, as one well satisfied. As this late-comer approached the scene of strife the flanks of the guard were wavering yet more perilously.

"A miracle, Sire!" cried the prelate.

"But one that partakes more of earth than Heaven," retorted Charles, with ready irony.

"Who is he, Sire?" breathlessly asked the young girl. At her feet whimpered the blue-eyed page, holding to her skirt, all his courage gone.

But ere he could answer—if he had seen fit to do so—from below, out of the vortex, came the clamorous shouts:

"The duke! The duke!"

The master of the mountain pass heard also, and felt at that moment a sudden thrill of premonition. The guerdon; the quittance; could it be possible after all, the end was not far? He could not believe it, yet a paroxysm of fury seized him; his strength became redoubled; wherever his sword touched a trooper fell.

But like a wave, recovering from the recoil, the soldiers of Friedwald broke upon his doomed band with a force manifold augmented; broke and carried the flanks with it, for the assaulting parties to the right and left were dismayed by the strength unexpectedly hurled against the center. The bulky Flemish, the lithe Spaniard, the lofty trooper of Friedwald, overflowed the shattered line of the marauders.

"Duke Robert!" and "Friedwald!" shouted the Austrian band.

"Cowards! Would you give way?" cried the free baron, striking among them. "Fools! Better the sword than the rope. Come!"

But in his frenzied efforts to rally his men the master of Hochfels found himself face to face with the leader of the already victorious troops. At the sight of him the bastard paused; his breast rose and fell with his labored breathing; his sword was dyed red, also his arms, his clothes; from his forehead the blood ran down over his beard. His eyes rolled like those of an animal; he seemed something inhuman; an incarnation of baffled purpose.

"If it is reprisal you want, Sir Duke, you shall have it," he panted.

"Reprisal!" exclaimed Robert of Friedwald, scornfully. "The best you can offer is your life."

And with that they closed. Evading the strokes of his more bulky antagonist, the younger man's sword repeatedly sought the vulnerable part of the other's armor. The free baron's strength became exhausted; his blows rang harmlessly, or struck the empty air.

A sensation of pain admonished him of his own disability. About him his band had melted away; doggedly had they given up their lives beneath sword, mace and poniard. The ground was strewn with the slain; riderless horses were galloping up the road. The free baron breathed yet harder; before his eyes he seemed to see only blood.

Of what avail had been his efforts? He had won the princess, but how brief had been his triumphs! With a belief that was almost superstition, he had imagined his destiny lay thronewards. But the curse of his birth had been a ban to his efforts; the bitterness of defeat smote him. He knew he was falling; his nerveless hand loosened his blade.

"I am sped!" he cried; "sped!" and released his hold, while the tide of conflict appeared abruptly to sweep away.

As he struck the earth an ornament that he had worn about his neck became unfastened and dropped to the ground. But once he moved; to raise himself on his elbow.

"The hazard of the die!" he muttered, striving to see with eyes that were growing blind. A rush of blood interrupted him, he fell back, straightened out, and stirred no more.

Now had the din of strife ceased altogether, when descending the slope appeared a cavalcade, at the head of which rode a lady on a white palfrey, followed by several maids and guarded by an escort of soldiers who wore the king's own colors. A stricken procession it seemed as it drew near, the faces of the women white with fear; the gay attire and gorgeous trappings—a mockery on that ensanguined arena.

Proudly proceeded the lady on the white horse, although in her eyes shone a look of dread. It was an age when women were accustomed to scenes of bloodshed, inured to conflicts in the lists; yet she shuddered as her palfrey picked its way across that field. At the near side of the hollow her glance singled out a motionless figure among those lying where they had fallen, a thick-set man, whose face was upturned to the sky. One look into those glassy eyes, so unresponsive to her own, and she quickly dismounted and fell on her knees beside the recumbent form. She took one of the cold hands in hers, but dropped it with a scream.

"Dead!" she cried; "dead!"

The lady stared at that terribly repulsive face. For some moments she seemed dazed; sat there dully, the onlookers forbearing to disturb her. Then her gaze encountered that of him who had slain the free baron and she sprang to her feet. On her features an expression of bewilderment had been followed by one of recognition.

"The duke's fool!" she exclaimed wildly. "He is dead, and you have killed him! The fool has murdered his master."

"It is true he is dead," answered the other, leaning heavily on his sword and surveying the inanimate form, "but he was no master of mine."

"That, Madame la Princesse, we will also affirm," broke in an austere voice.

Behind them rode the emperor, a dark figure among those bright gowns and golden trappings, the saddle cloth and adornments of his steed somber as his own garments. As he spoke he waved back the cavalcade, and, in obedience to the gesture, the ladies, soldiers and attendants withdrew to a discreet distance. Bitterly the princess surveyed the monarch; overwrought, a torrent of reproaches sprang from her lips.

"Why has your Majesty made war on my lord? Why have you countenanced his enemies and harbored his murderers?" And then, drawing her figure to its full height, her tawny hair falling in a cloud about her shoulders: "Be sure, Sire, my kinsman, the king, will know how to avenge my wrongs."

"He can not, Madam," answered Charles coldly. "They are already avenged."

"Already avenged!" she exclaimed, with her gaze upon the prostrate figure.

"Yes, Madam. For he who hath injured you has paid the extreme penalty."

"He who was my husband has been foully murdered!" she retorted, vehemently. "What had the Duke of Friedwald done to bring upon himself your Majesty's displeasure?"

"Nothing," answered the emperor, more gently.

"Nothing! And yet he lies there—dead!"

"He who lies before you is not the duke, but Louis of Hochfels, the bastard of Pfalz-Urfeld."

"Ah," she cried, excitedly, "I see you have been listening to the false fool, his murderer."

An expression of annoyance appeared on the emperor's face. He liked not to be crossed at any time by any one.

"You have well called him the false fool, Madam," said Charles, curtly, "for he is no true fool."

"And yet he rode with your troops!"

"To redeem his honor, Madam."

"His honor!"

With a scornful face she approached nearer to the monarch.

"His honor! In God's name, what mean you?"

"That the false fool, Madam, is himself the Duke of Friedwald!"



CHAPTER XXVII

A MAID OF FRANCE

"The Duke of Friedwald!"

It was not the princess who thus exclaimed, but Jacqueline. Charles had spoken loudly, and, drawn irresistibly to the scene, she had caught his significant words at the moment she recognized, in his brave accoutrements, him whom she had known as the duke's fool.

When she had heard, above the din of the fray, the cries with which the new-comer had been greeted, no suspicion of his identity had crossed her mind. She had wondered, been puzzled at the unexpected appearance of Robert, Duke of Friedwald, but that he and the ailing fool were one and the same was wide from her field of speculation. In amazement, she regarded the knight who had turned the tide of conflict, and then started, noticing the colors he wore, a paltry yellow ribbon on his arm, the badge of her office. Much she had not understood now appeared plain. His assurance in Fools' hall; his reckless daring; his skill with the sword. He was a soldier, not a jester; a lord, not a lord's servant.

Lost in no less wonder, the princess gazed from the free baron to Charles, and back again to the lifeless form. Stooping, she looked steadfastly into the face, as though she would read its secret. Perhaps, too, as she studied those features, piece by piece she patched together the scenes of the past. Her own countenance began to harden, as though some part of that mask of death had fallen upon her, and when she glanced once more at the emperor they saw she no longer doubted. With forced self-control, she turned to the emperor.

"Doubtless, it is some brave pastime," she said to Charles. "Will your Majesty deign to explain?"

"Nay," answered the emperor, dryly; "that thankless task I'll leave to him who played the fool."

Uncovering, the Duke of Friedwald approached. The excitement of the contest over, his pallid features marked the effects of his recent injuries, the physical strain under which he had labored. Her cold eyes swept over him haughtily, inquiringly.

"For the part I have played, Madam," he said, "I ask your forbearance. If we both labored under a delusion, I have only regret—"

"Regret!" Was it an outburst of grief, or wounded pride? He flushed, but continued firmly:

"Madame la Princesse, when first a marriage was proposed between us I was younger in experience if not in years than I am now; more used to the bivouac or hunters' camps than courts. And woman—" he smiled—"well, she was a vague ideal. At times, she came to me when sleeping before the huntsman's fire in the solitudes of the forest; again, was reflected from the pages of classic lore. She seemed a part of the woods and the streams, for by ancient art had she not been turned into trees and running brooks? So she whispered in the boughs and murmured among the rushes. Mere Schwaermerei. Do you care to hear? 'Tis the only defense I can offer."

Her contemptuous blue eyes remained fastened on him; she disdained to answer.

"It was a dreamer from brake and copse who went in the disguise of a jester to be near her; to win her for himself—and then, declare his identity. Well may you look scornful. Love!—it is not such a romantic quality—at court. A momentary pastime, perhaps, but—a deep passion—a passion stronger than rank, than death, than all—"

Above the face of her whom he addressed his glance rested upon Jacqueline, and he paused. The princess could but note, and a derisive expression crept about her mouth.

"Once I would have told you all," he resumed. "That night—when you were Lady of the Lists. But—"

He broke off abruptly, wishing to spare her the bitter memory of her own acts. Did she remember that day, when she had been queen of the chaplet? When she had crowned him whom now death and dishonor had overtaken?

"The rest, Madam, you know—save this." And stooping, he picked up the ornament that had dropped from Louis of Hochfels' neck. "Here, Princess, is the miniature you sent me. He, who used you so ill, stole it from me in prison; through it, he recognized the fool for the duke; with an assassin's blow he struck me down."

A moment he looked at that fair painted semblance. Did it recall the past too vividly? His face showed no pain; only tranquillity. His eye was rather that of a connoisseur than a lover. He smiled gently; then held it to her.

Mechanically she let the portrait slip through her fingers, and it fell to the moistened grass near the form of him who had wedded her. Then she drew back her dress so that it might not touch the body at her feet.

"Have I your Majesty's permission to withdraw?" she said, coldly.

"If you will not accept our poor escort to the king," answered Charles.

"My ladies and myself will dispense with so much honor, Sire," she returned.

"Such service as we can command is at your disposal, Madam," he repeated.

"It is not far distant to the chateau, Sire."

"As you will," said the emperor.

With no further word she bowed deeply, turned, and slowly retracing her steps, mounted her horse, and rode away, followed by her maids and the troopers of France.

As she disappeared, without one backward glance, the duke gazed quickly toward the spot where Jacqueline had been standing. He remembered the young girl had heard his story; he had caught her eyes upon him while he was telling it; very deep, serious, judicial, they seemed. Were they weighing his past infatuation for the princess; holding the scales to his acts? Swiftly he turned to her now, but she had vanished. Save for rough nurses, companions in arms, moving here and there among the wounded, he and the emperor stood alone. In the bushes a bird which had left a nest of fledglings returned and caroled among the boughs; a clarifying melody after the mad passions of the day. The elder man noted the direction of the duke's glance, the yellow ribbon on his arm.

"So it was a jestress, not a princess you found, thou dreamer," he said, half-ironically.

"The daughter of the Constable of Dubrois, Sire," was the reply.

The emperor nodded. "The family colors have changed," he observed dryly.

"With fortune, Sire."

"Truly," said Charles, "fortune is a jestress. She had like to play on us this day. But your fever?" he added, abruptly, setting his horse's head toward camp.

"Is gone, Sire," answered the duke, riding by his side.

"And your injuries?"

"Were so slight they are forgotten."

"Then is the breath of battle better medicine than nostrum or salve. In youth, 'tis the sword-point; in age, turn we to the hilt-cross. But this maid—have you won her?"

The young man changed color. "Won her, Sire?" he replied. "That I know not—no word has passed—"

"No word," said the emperor, doubtingly. "A knight-errant and a castleless maid!"

The duke vouchsafed no answer.

"Humph!" added Charles. "Thus do our plans come to naught. If you got her, and wore her, what end would be served?"

"No end of state, perhaps, Sire."

"Why," observed the monarch, "the state and the faith—what else is there? But go your way. How smooth it may be no man can tell."

"Is the road like to be rougher than it has been, Sire?"

"The maid belongs to France," answered Charles, "and France belongs to the king."

"The king!" exclaimed the duke, fiercely.

Involuntarily had they drawn rein in the shade of a tiny thicket overlooking the valley. Even from this slight exercise, bowed and weary appeared the emperor's form. The hand which controlled his steed trembled, but the lines of his face spoke of unweakened sinew of spirit, the iron grip of a will that only death might loosen.

"The king!" repeated the young man. "He is no king of mine, nor hers. To you, Sire, only, I owe allegiance, or my life, at your need."

A gentler expression softened the emperor's features, as a gleam of sunshine forces itself into the somberest forest depths.

"We have had our need," he said. "Not long since."

His glance swept the outlook below. "Heaven watches over monarchs," he added, turning a keen, satirical look on the other, "but through the vigilance of our earthly servitors."

The duke's response was interrupted by the appearance below of a horseman, covered with dust, riding toward them, and urging his weary steed up the incline with spur and voice. Deliberately the monarch surveyed the new-comer.

"What make you of yonder fellow?" he said. "He is not of the guard, nor of the bastard's following."

"His housings are the color of France, Sire."

"Then can I make a shrewd guess of his purpose," observed the monarch.

As he spoke the horseman drew nearer and a moment later had stopped before the emperor.

"A message from the king, Sire!" exclaimed the man, dismounting and kneeling to present a formidable-looking document, with a great disk of lead through which a silken string was drawn.

Breaking the seal, the emperor opened the missive. "It is well," he said at length, folding the parchment. "The king was even on his way to the chateau to await our coming, when he met Caillette and received our communication. Go you to the camp"—to the messenger—"where we shall presently return." And as the man rode away: "The king begs we will continue our journey at our leisure," he added, "and announces he will receive us at the chateau."

"And have I your permission to return to Friedwald, Sire?" asked the other in a low voice.

"Alone?"

"Nay; I would conduct the constable's daughter there to safety."

"And thus needlessly court Francis' resentment? Not yet."

The young man said no word, but his face hardened.

"Tut!" said the emperor, dryly, although not unkindly. "Where's fealty now? Fine words; fine words! A slender chit of a maid, forsooth. Without lands, without dowry; with naught—save herself."

"Is she not enough, Sire?"

"Francis is more easily disarmed in his own castle by his own hospitality than in the battle-field," observed Charles, without replying to this question. "In field have we conquered him; in palace hath he conquered himself, and our friendship. Therefore you and the maid return in our train to the king's court."

"At your order, Sire."

But the young man's voice was cold, ominous.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE FAVORITE IS ALARMED

Thus it befell that both Robert of Friedwald and Jacqueline accompanied the emperor to the little town, the scene of their late adventures, and that they who had been fool and joculatrix rode once more through the street they had ne'er expected to see again. The flags were flying; cannon boomed; they advanced beneath wreaths of roses, the way paved with flowers. Standing at the door of his inn, the landlord dropped his jaw in amazement as his glance fell upon the jestress and her companion behind the great emperor himself. His surprise, too, was abruptly voiced by a ragged, wayworn person not far distant in the crowd, whose fingers had been busy about the pockets of his neighbors; fingers which had a deft habit of working by themselves, while his eyes were bent elsewhere and his lips joined in the general acclaim; fingers which like antennas seemed to have a special intelligence of their own. Now those long weapons of abstraction and appropriation ceased their deft work; he became all eyes.

"Good lack! Who may the noble gentleman behind the emperor be?" he exclaimed. "Surely 'tis the duke's fool."

"And ride with the emperor?" said a burly citizen at his elbow. "'Tis thou who art the fool."

"Truly I think so," answered the other. "I see; believe; but may not understand."

At that moment the duke's gaze in passing chanced to rest upon the pinched and over-curious face of the scamp-student; a gleam of recollection shone in his glance. "Gladius gemmatus!" cried the scholar, and a smile on the noble's countenance told him he had heard. Turning the problem in his mind, the vagrant-philosopher forgot about pilfering and the procession itself, when a soldier touched him roughly on the shoulder.

"Are you the scamp-student?" said the trooper.

"Now they'll hang me with these spoils in my pockets," thought the scholar. But as bravely as might be, he replied: "The former I am; the latter I would be."

"Then the Duke of Friedwald sent me to give you this purse," remarked the man, suiting the action to the word. "He bade me say 'tis to take the place of a bit of silver you once did not earn." And the trooper vanished.

"Well-a-day!" commented the burly citizen, regarding the gold pieces and the philosopher in wonderment of his own. "You may be a fool, but you must be an honest knave."

At the chateau the meeting between the two monarchs was unreservedly cordial on both sides. They spoke with satisfaction of the peace now existing between them and of other matters social and political. The emperor deplored deeply the untimely demise of Francis' son, Charles, who had caught the infection of plague while sleeping at Abbeville. Later the misalliance of the princess was cautiously touched upon. That lady, said Francis gravely, to whom the gaieties of the court at the present time could not fail to be distasteful, had left the chateau immediately upon her return. Ever of a devout mind, she had repaired to a convent and announced her intention of devoting herself, and her not inconsiderable fortune, to a higher and more spiritual life. Charles, who at that period of his lofty estates himself hesitated between the monastery and the court, applauded her resolution, to which the king perfunctorily and but half-heartedly responded.

Shortly after, the emperor, fatigued by his journey, begged leave to retire to his apartments, whither he went, accompanied by his "brother of France" and followed by his attendants. At the door Francis, with many expressions of good will, took leave of his royal guest for the time being, and, turning, encountered the Duke of Friedwald.

Francis, himself once accustomed to assume the disguise of an archer of the royal guard the better to pursue his love follies among the people, now gazed curiously upon one who had befooled the entire court.

"You took your departure, my Lord," said the king, quietly, "without waiting for the order of your going."

"He who enacts the fool, your Majesty, without patent to office must needs have good legs," replied the young man. "Else will he have his fingers burnt."

"Only his fingers?" returned the monarch with a smile, somewhat sardonic.

"Truly," thought the other, as Francis strode away, "the king regrets the fool's escape from Notre Dame and the fagots."

During the next day Charles called first for his leech and then for a priest, but whether the former or the latter, or both, temporarily assuaged the restlessness of mortal disease, that night he was enabled to be present at the character dances given in his honor by the ladies of the court in the great gallery of the chateau.

At a signal from the cornet, gitterns, violas and pipes began to play, and Francis and his august guest, accompanied by Queen Eleanor, and the emperor's sister, Marguerite of Navarre, entered the hall, followed by the dauphin and Catharine de Medici, Diane de Poitiers, the Duchesse d'Etampes; marshal, chancellor and others of the king's friends and counselors; courtiers, poets, jesters, philosophers; a goodly company, such as few monarchs could summon at their beck and call. Charles' eye lighted; even his austere nature momentarily kindled amid that brilliant spectacle; Francis' palace of pleasure was an intoxicating antidote to spleen or hypochondria. And when the court ladies, in a dazzling band, appeared in the dance, led by the Duchesse d'Etampes, he openly expressed his approval.

"Ah, Madam," he said to the Queen of Navarre, "there is little of the monastery about our good brother's court."

"Did your Majesty expect we should cloister you?" she answered, with a lively glance.

He gazed meditatively upon the "Rose of Valois," or the "Pearl of the Valois," as she was sometimes called; then a shadow fell upon him; the futility of ambition; the emptiness of pleasure. In scanty attire, the Duchesse d'Etampes, with the king, flashed before him; the former, all beauty, all grace, her little feet trampling down care, so lightly. Somberly he watched her, and sighed. Mentally he compared himself to Francis; they had traveled the road of life together, discarding their youth at the same turn of the highway; yet here was his French brother, indefatigable in the pursuit of merriment, while his own soul sang miserere to the tune of Francis' fiddles. Yet, had he overheard the conversation of the favorite and the king, the emperor's moodiness would not, perhaps, have been unmixed with a stronger feeling.

"Sire," the duchess was saying in her most persuasive manner, "while you have Charles—once your keeper—in your power, here in the chateau, you will surely punish him for the past and avenge yourself? You will make him revoke the treaty of Madrid, or shut him up in one of Louis XI's oubliettes?"

"I will persuade him if I can," replied the king coldly, "but never force him. My honor, Madam, is dearer to me than my interests."

The favorite said no more of a cherished project, knowing Francis' temper and his stubbornness when crossed. She merely shrugged her white shoulders and watched him closely. The monarch had not scrupled once to break his covenant with Charles, holding that treaties made under duress, by force majeure, were legally void, while now— But the king was composed of contradictions, or—was her own influence waning?

She had observed a new expression cross his countenance when in the retinue of the emperor he had noted the daughter of the constable; such a tenderness as she remembered at Bayonne when the king had looked upon her, the duchess, for the first time. When she next spoke her words were the outcome of this train of thought.

"To think the jestress, Jacqueline, should turn out the daughter of that traitor, the Constable of Dubrois," she observed, keenly.

"A traitor, certainly," said Francis, "but also a brave man. Perhaps we pressed him too hard," he added retrospectively. "We were young in years and hot-tempered."

"Your Majesty remembers the girl—a dark-browed, bold creature?" remarked the duchess, smiling amiably.