hid her face in his breast.

'Never, never, never!' he swore to the rafters. 'As God lives and
reigns, so live thou and so reign, queen of me, my Picardy rose.'

She tried no more that night, fearing that his love so keen-edged might
make his will ride rough. The watch-fires at Louviers trembled and
streamed up in the north. There was no need for candles in the Dark
Tower.

They rose up early to a fair dawn. The cloud-wrack was blown off,
leaving the sky a lake of burnt yellow, pure, sweet, and cool. Thus the
world entered upon the summer of Saint Luke, to a new-risen sun, to thin
mists stealing off the moor, to wet flowers hearted anew, to blue air,
and hope left for those who would go gleaning. While Eustace Saint-Pol
was snoring abed and the Abbot Milo at his _Sursum Corda_, Richard had
Jehane by the hand. 'Come forth, my love; we have the broad day before
us and an empty kingdom to roam in. Come, my red rose, let me set you
among the flowers.' What could she do but harbour up her thoughts?

He took her afield, where flowers made the earth still a singing-place,
and gathered of these to deck her bosom and hair. Of the harebells he
made knots, the ground-colour of her eyes; but autumn loves the yellow,
so she was stuck with gold like a princess. She sat enthroned by his
command, this young girl in a high place, with downcast eyes and a face
all fire-colour, while he worshipped her to his fancy. I believe he had
no after-thought; but she saw the dun smoke of the fires at Louviers,
and knew they would make the night shudder again. Yet her sweetness,
patience, staid courtesy, humility, never failed her; out of the deep
wells of her soul she drew them forth in a stream. Richard adored.
'Queen Jehane, Queen Jehane!' he cried out, with his arms straightly
round her--'Was ever man in the world blest so high since God said,
"Behold thy mother"? And so art thou mother to me, O bride. Bride and
queen as thou shalt be.'

This was great invention. She put her hand upon his head. 'My Richard,
my Richard Yea-and-Nay,' she said, as if pitying his wild heart. The
nickname jarred.

'Never call me that,' he told her. 'Leave that to Bertran de Born, a
fool's word to the fool who made it.'

'If I could, if I could!' thought Jehane, and sighed. There were tears
in her eyes, also, as she remembered what generosity in him must be
frozen up, and what glory of her own. But she did not falter in what she
had to do, while he, too exalte