liently; more at
night, if there was a moon; and generally he closed his eyes with a
stave of _Li dous consire_, that song which he had made of and for her.

When she had been sitting there for upwards of a month, and still no
sign from the bearer of the letter, she saw Gilles de Gurdun come
halting up the poplar avenue and pry about the walls, much as she
herself had done. She knew him at once for all his tatters, this
square-faced, low-browed Norman. How he came there, if not as a
slot-hound comes, she could not guess; but she knew perfectly well what
he was about. The blood-instinct had led him, inflexible man, from far
Acre across the seas, over the sharp mountains and enormous plains; the
blood-instinct had brought him as truly as ever love led her--more
truly, indeed. Here he was, with murder still in his heart.

Watching him through the meshes of her hair, elbowing her arms on her
knees, she thought, What should she do? Plead? Nay, dare she plead for
so royal a head, for so great a heart, so great a king, for one so
nearly god that, for a sacrifice, she could have yielded up no more to
very God? This strife tore her to pieces, while Gurdun snuffled round
the walls, actually round the buttress where she crouched, spying out
the entries. On one side she feared Gilles, on the other scorned what he
could do. There was the leper! He made Gilles terrible; even her
sacrifice on Lebanon might not avail against such as he. But King
Richard! But this strong singer! But this god of war! Gilles came round
the walls for a second time, nosing here and there, stopping, shaking
his head, limping on. Then she heard the King's voice singing, high and
sharp and spiring; his glorious voice, keener than any man's, as pure as
any boy's, singing with astounding gaiety, _'Al entrada del tems clar,
eya!'_

Gilles stopped as one struck, and gaped up at the tower. To see his
stupid mouth open, Jehane's bosom heaved with pride well-nigh
insufferable. Had any woman, since Mary conceived, such a lover as hers!
'Oh, Gilles, Gilles, go you on with your knife in your vest. What can
you do, little oaf, against King Richard?' Gilles went in by the gate,
and she let him go. He was away two days, by which time she had cause to
alter her mind. The prisoner sang nothing; and presently a man dressed
like a Bohemian came out of the town and spoke to her. This was Cogia,
the Assassin, bearer of the letter.

'Well, Cogia?' said Jehane, holding herself