father all
which happened yesterday. I pleaded for you. He questioned me very
closely. And when I had ended, he stroked his beard, and presently
struck one hand upon the table. 'Out of the mouth of babes!' he said.
Then he said: 'My dear, I believe for certain that this lady and her
son have been driven from their kingdom wrongfully. If it be for the
good of God to comfort the afflicted, how much more is it commendable
to help and succor one who is the daughter of a king, descended from
royal lineage, and to whose blood we ourselves are related!' And
accordingly he and your mother have their heads together yonder,
planning an invasion of England, no less, and the dethronement of your
wicked father, my Edward. And accordingly--hail, King of England!" The
girl clapped her hands gleefully. The nightingale sang.

But the boy kept momentary silence. Not even in youth were the men of
his race handicapped by excessively tender hearts; yesterday in the
shrubbery the boy had kissed this daughter of Count William, in part
because she was a healthy and handsome person, and partly because
great benefit might come of an alliance with her father. Well! the
Prince had found chance-taking not unfortunate. With the episode as
foundation, Count William had already builded up the future queenship
of England. The strong Count could do--and, as it seemed, was now in
train to do--indomitable deeds to serve his son-in-law; and now the
beggar of five minutes since foresaw himself, with this girl's love as
ladder, mounting to the high habitations of the King of England, the
Lord of Ireland, and the Duke of Aquitaine. Thus they would herald
him.

So he embraced the girl. "Hail, Queen of England!" said the Prince;
and then, "If I forget--" His voice broke awkwardly. "My dear, if ever
I forget--!" Their lips met now. The nightingale discoursed as if on a
wager.

Presently was mingled with the bird's descant another kind of singing.
Beyond the yew-hedge as these two stood silent, breast to breast,
passed young Jehan Kuypelant, one of the pages, fitting to the
accompaniment of a lute his paraphrase of the song which Archilochus
of Sicyon very anciently made in honor of Venus Melaenis, the tender
Venus of the Dark.

At a gap in the hedge the young Brabanter paused. His singing ended,
gulped. These two, who stood heart hammering against heart, saw for an
instant Jehan Kuypelant's lean face silvered by the moonlight, his
mouth a tiny abyss. Foll