this reason he would not give her love, in return for that she set on
him. She confirmed herself in her purpose, that at such time and place
she saw the Duke speaking with his niece, she would go swiftly to the
lady, and tell out all her mind, hiding nothing because it was evil.
Neither time nor place was met, till Pentecost was come, and the Duke
held high Court, commanding to the feast all the ladies of his realm,
amongst the first that lady, his niece, who was the Chatelaine of
Vergi. When the Duchess looked on her, the blood pricked in her veins,
for reason that she hated her more than aught else in the world. She
had the courage to hide her malice, and greeted the lady more gladly
than ever she had done before. But she yearned to show openly the
anger that burned in her heart, and the delay was much against her
mind. On Pentecost, whilst the tables were removed, the Duchess
brought the ladies to her chamber with her, that, apart from the
throng, they might the more graciously attire them for the dance. She
deemed her hour had come, and having no longer the power to refrain
her lips, she said gaily, as if in jest,

"Chatelaine, array yourself very sweetly, since there is a fair and
worthy lord you have to please."

The lady answered right simply,

"In truth, madam, I know not what you are thinking of; but for my part
I wish for no such friendship as may not be altogether according to my
honour and to that of my lord."

"I grant that readily," replied the Duchess, "you are a good mistress,
and have an apt pupil in your little dog."

The ladies returned with the Duchess to the hall, where the dances
were already set. They had listened to the tale, but could not mark
the jest. The chatelaine remained in the chamber. Her colour came and
went, and because of her wrath and trouble the heart throbbed thickly
in her breast. She passed within a tiring chamber, where a little
maiden was lying at the foot of the bed; but for grief she might not
perceive her. The chatelaine flung herself upon the bed, bewailing her
evil plight, for she was exceedingly sorrowful. She said,

"Ah, Lord God, take pity on me! What may this mean, that I have
listened to my lady's reproaches because of the training of my little
dog! This she can have learned from none--as well I know--save from
him whom I have loved, and who has betrayed me. He would never have
shown her this thing, except that he was her familiar friend, and
doubtless loves he