the wrath of
your son has touched my mouth, so that at the last I speak with my
tongue.

'I ask myself, Madame, why do not the virgins of Christendom arise and
offer their unrifled zones to his noble fingers? Sister and Aunt, there
is one at least, in Navarre, who so arises. I offer my child Berengere,
called by trobadors (because of her chaste seclusion) Frozen Heart, to
be thawed in the sun of your son. I offer, moreover, my great fiefs of
Oliocastro, Cingovilas, Monte Negro, and Sierra Alba as far as Agreda;
and a dowry also of 60,000 marks in gold of Byzance, to be numbered by
three bishops, one each of our choosing, and the third to be chosen by
Our lord and ghostly father the Pope. And I offer to you, Madame (Sister
and Aunt), the devotion of a brother and nephew, the right hand of
concord, and the kiss of peace. I pray God daily to preserve your
Celsitude.--From our court of Pampluna, etc. Under the Privy Signet of
the King himself--Sanchius Navarrensium Rex, Sapiens, Pater Patriae,
Pius, Catholicus.'

This done, and means taken for sure despatch, he sends for the virgin
in question, and embracing her with one arm, holds her close to his
knee.

'My child,' he says, 'you are to be wedded to the greatest prince now on
life, the pattern of chivalry, the mirror of manly beauty, heir to a
great throne. What do you say to this?'

The virgin kept her eyes down; a very faint flush of rose troubled her
cheek.

'I am in your hands, sire,' she said, whereupon Don Sancho enfolded her.

'You are in my arms, dear child,' he testified. 'Your lord will be King
of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of Anjou, Poictou, and
Maine, and lord of some island in the western sea whose name I have
forgotten. He is also the subject of prophecy, which (as the Arabians
know very well) declares that he will rule such an empire as Alexander
never saw, nor the mighty Charles dreamed of. Does this please you, my
child?'

'He is a very great lord,' said Berengere, 'and will be a great king. I
hope to serve him faithfully.'

'By Saint James, and so you shall!' cried the happy Don Sancho. 'Go, my
child, and say your prayers. You will have something to pray about at
last.'

She was the only daughter he had left, exorbitantly loved; a little
creature too much brocaded to move, cold as snow, pious as a virgin
enclosed, with small regular features like a fairy queen's. She had a
narrow mind, and small heart for meeting tribulati