t least so far as
known to herself, she should think of her young defender, to whom she
had just rendered a service so interesting, with more emotion than of
any of the whole band of high born nobles who had for two years past
besieged her with their adoration. Above all, when the thought
of Campobasso, the unworthy favourite of Duke Charles, with his
hypocritical mien, his base, treacherous spirit, his wry neck and his
squint, occurred to her, his portrait was more disgustingly hideous than
ever, and deeply did she resolve no tyranny should make her enter into
so hateful a union.

In the meantime, whether the good Lady Hameline of Croye understood and
admired masculine beauty as much as when she was fifteen years younger
(for the good Countess was at least thirty-five, if the records of that
noble house speak the truth), or whether she thought she had done their
young protector less justice than she ought, in the first view which she
had taken of his services, it is certain that he began to find favour in
her eyes.

"My niece," she said, "has bestowed on you a kerchief for the binding
of your wound, I will give you one to grace your gallantry, and to
encourage you in your farther progress in chivalry."

So saying, she gave him a richly embroidered kerchief of blue and
silver, and pointing to the housing of her palfrey, and the plumes in
her riding cap, desired him to observe that the colours were the same.

The fashion of the time prescribed one absolute mode of receiving such
a favour, which Quentin followed accordingly by tying the napkin around
his arm, yet his manner of acknowledgment had more of awkwardness, and
loss of gallantry in it, than perhaps it might have had at another time,
and in another presence, for though the wearing of a lady's favour,
given in such a manner, was merely matter of general compliment, he
would much rather have preferred the right of displaying on his arm that
which bound the wound inflicted by the sword of Dunois.

Meantime they continued their pilgrimage, Quentin now riding abreast of
the ladies, into whose society he seemed to be tacitly adopted. He did
not speak much, however, being filled by the silent consciousness of
happiness, which is afraid of giving too strong vent to its feelings.
The Countess Isabelle spoke still less, so that the conversation was
chiefly carried on by the Lady Hameline, who showed no inclination to
let it drop, for, to initiate the young Archer, as s