.

When, shortly after dawn, the sentry at the drawbridge saw a great horse
with a double burden crossing the open space he was but faintly
interested. A belated peasant with his Christmas dues, perhaps. But
when, on the lifting of the morning haze, he saw that the horse bore two
children and one a girl, he called another man to look.

"Troubadours, by the sound," said the newcomer. For the Fool was
singing to cheer his lack of breakfast. "Coming empty of belly, as come
all troubadours."

But the sentry was dubious. Minstrels were a slothful lot, averse to the
chill of early morning.

And when the pair came nearer and drew up beyond the moat, the soldiers
were still at a loss. The Fool's wandering eyes and tender mouth bespoke
him no troubadour, and the child rode with head high like a princess.

"I have come to see my mother," Clotilde called, and demanded admission,
clearly.

Here were no warriors, but a Fool and a child. So they let down the
bridge and admitted the pair. But they raised the bridge at once again
against the loving advances of Philip's cousin Charles.

But once in the courtyard Clotilde's courage began to fail her. Would
her mother want her? Prayer had been unavailing and she was still a
girl. And, at first, it seemed as though her fears had been justified,
although they took her into the castle kindly enough, and offered her
food which she could not eat and plied her with questions which she
could not answer.

"I want my mother," was the only thing they could get out of her. Her
little body was taut as a bowstring, her lips tight. They offered her
excuses; the lady mother slept; now she was rising and must be clothed.
And then at last they told her, because of the hunted look in her eyes.

"She is ill," they said. "Wait but a little and you shall see her."

Deadly despair had Clotilde in its grasp with that announcement. These
strange folk were gentle enough with her, but never before had her
mother refused her the haven of her out-held arms. Besides, they lied.
Their eyes were shifty. She could see in their faces that they kept
something from her.

Philip, having confessed himself overnight, by candle-light, was at mass
when the pair arrived. Three days one must rot of peace, and those three
days, to be not entirely lost, he prayed for success against Charles, or
for another thing that lay close to his heart. But not for both
together, since that was not possible.

He knelt stiffly in