g more than he
should have done. I told her much about myself, also what my mother had
said to me on the day of the Burning, and of how she had prophesied that
I should be a wanderer, words at which Blanche sighed and answered:

"Yet you seem to be well planted in London and in rich soil, Master
Hubert."

"Aye, Lady, but it is not my native soil and for the rest we go where
Fate leads us."

"Fate! What does that word bring to my mind? I have it; yonder Moor of
yours who makes those jewels. He has the very eyes of Fate and I fear
him."

"That is strange, Lady, and yet not so strange, for about this man there
is something fateful. Ever he swears to me that I shall accompany him to
some dim land where he was born, of which land he is a prince."

Then I told her all the story of Kari, to which she listened open-eyed
and wondering, saying when I had finished,

"So you saved this poor wanderer also, and doubtless he loves you well."

"Yes, Lady, almost too well, seeing that at times he is jealous of me,
though God knows I did little for him save pick him from a crowd upon
the quay."

"Ah! I guess it, who saw him watching you the other day. Yet it is
strange, for I thought that only women could be jealous of men, and men
of women. Hush! they are mocking us because we talk so friendly."

I looked up, following her glance, and saw that Deleroy and the two fine
ladies between whom he sat, all of whom appeared to have had enough of
wine, were pointing at us. Indeed, in a silence, such as now and again
happens at feasts, I heard one of them say,

"You had best beware lest that fair white dove of yours does not slip
your hand and begin to coo in another's ear, my Lord Deleroy," and heard
his answer,

"Nay, I have her too fast, and who cares for a pining dove whereof the
feathers adorn another's cap?"

Whilst I was wondering what this dark talk might mean the company broke
up, the lady Blanche gliding away through a door at the back of the
dais, followed, as I noted, by Deleroy who seemed flushed and angry.

Many times I visited that prodigal house which seemed to me to be the
haunt of folk who, however highly placed and greatly favoured at
Court, were as loose in their lives as they were in their talk. Indeed,
although I was no saint, I liked them not at all, especially the men
with their scented hair, turned-up shoes, and party-coloured clothes.
Nor as I thought, did Sir Robert Aleys like them, who, whatever his
fa