and Quentin had accordingly, during
the former period of their journey, amused his fair charge with the
liveliness of his conversation and the songs and tales of his country,
the former of which he sang in his native language, while his efforts to
render the latter into his foreign and imperfect French, gave rise to
a hundred little mistakes and errors of speech, as diverting as the
narratives themselves. But on this anxious morning, he rode beside the
Ladies of Croye without any of his usual attempts to amuse them, and
they could not help observing his silence as something remarkable.

"Our young companion has seen a wolf," said the Lady Hameline, alluding
to an ancient superstition, "and he has lost his tongue in consequence."

[Vox quoque Moerim Jam fugit ipsa; lupi Moerim videre priores. Virgilii
ix. Ecloga. The commentators add, in explanation of this passage, the
opinion of Pliny: "The being beheld by a wolf in Italy is accounted
noxious, and is supposed to take away the speech of a man, if these
animals behold him ere he sees them." S.]

"To say I had tracked a fox were nearer the mark," thought Quentin, but
gave the reply no utterance.

"Are you well, Seignior Quentin?" said the Countess Isabelle, in a tone
of interest at which she herself blushed, while she felt that it was
something more than the distance between them warranted.

"He hath sat up carousing with the jolly friars," said the Lady
Hameline, "the Scots are like the Germans, who spend all their mirth
over the Rheinwein, and bring only their staggering steps to the dance
in the evening, and their aching heads to the ladies' bower in the
morning."

"Nay, gentle ladies," said Quentin, "I deserve not your reproach. The
good friars were at their devotions almost all night, and for myself, my
drink was barely a cup of their thinnest and most ordinary wine."

"It is the badness of his fare that has put him out of humour," said the
Countess Isabelle. "Cheer up, Seignior Quentin, and should we ever visit
my ancient Castle of Bracquemont together, if I myself should stand your
cup bearer, and hand it to you, you shall have a generous cup of wine,
that the like never grew upon the vines of Hochheim or Johannisberg."

"A glass of water, noble lady, from your hand,"--Thus far did Quentin
begin, but his voice trembled, and Isabelle continued, as if she had
been insensible of the tenderness of the accentuation upon the personal
pronoun.

"The wine was sto