r about a terrible boar he had
chased that morning across the woods, how it had lain foaming at his
feet, and Isolda interrupted him to say he had a grain of dust in his
eye. Then Andre was full of his plans for the future, and Isolda stroked
his fair hair, remarking that he must be feeling very tired. Then,
heeding nothing but his own joy and excitement, the young prince hurled
defiance at destiny, calling by all his gods on dangers to come forward,
so that he might have the chance of quelling them, and the poor nurse
exclaimed, in a flood of tears, "My child, you love me no longer."

Out of all patience with these constant interruptions, Andre scolded
her kindly enough, and mocked at her childish fears. Then, paying no
attention to a sort of melancholy that was coming over him, he bade
her tell him old tales of his childhood, and had a long talk about his
brother Louis, his absent mother, and tears were in his eyes when he
recalled her last farewell. Isolda listened joyfully, and answered all
he asked; but no fell presentiment shook her heart: the poor woman loved
Andre with all the strength of her soul; for him she would have given
up her life in this world and in the world to come; yet she was not his
mother.

When all was ready, Robert of Cabane came to tell the prince that
the queen awaited him; Andre cast one last look at the smiling fields
beneath the starry heavens, pressed his nurse's hand to his lips and to
his heart, and followed the grand seneschal slowly and, it seemed, with
some regret. But soon the brilliant lights of the room, the wine that
circulated freely, the gay talk, the eager recitals of that day's
exploits served to disperse the cloud of gloom that had for a moment
overspread the countenance of the prince. The queen alone, leaning on
the table with fixed eyes and lips that never moved, sat at this strange
feast pale and cold as a baleful ghost summoned from the tomb to disturb
the joy of the party. Andre, whose brain began to be affected by the
draughts of wine from Capri and Syracuse, was annoyed at his wife's
look, and attributing it to contempt, filled a goblet to the brim
and presented it to the queen. Joan visibly trembled, her lips moved
convulsively; but the conspirators drowned in their noisy talk the
involuntary groan that escaped her. In the midst of a general uproar,
Robert of Cabane proposed that they should serve generous supplies of
the same wine drunk at the royal table to the Hu