“Who may that proud damsel be, and what ails
her at my roses?” quoth Charlotte, sitting herself
down again and still following them with her eyes.
“Methinks I have seen her face before; and what
ails you?” she asked, looking earnestly on me,
“for you are as white as the last snow ere it
melts in spring.”
I had good reason to be pale, for I very well guessed
that Elliot, having ridden in the Maiden’s company
to see me, and to surprise me with the unlooked-for
gladness of her coming, had marked Charlotte as she
so innocently leaned on me and laughed to me, and
had conceived anger against us both, for of a truth
Charlotte was very fair and of a joyous aspect.
Yet, taken so suddenly as I was, between the extreme
of delight in looking on my lady beyond hope, and
the very deep of sorrow that she had so bitterly slighted
me, I was yet wary of betraying myself. For the
girl beside me had, in all honest and maidenly service
that woman may do for man, been kinder to me than
a sister, and no thought or word of earthly love had
ever passed between us. That she should wot of
Elliot’s anger, and of its cause, and so hold
my lady lightly, ay, and triumph over her in her heart
(as is the nature of a woman, her ministry being thus
churlishly repaid), was more than I could endure.
So, may the saints forgive me! I lied, and it
is a strange thing, but true, that howsoever a gentleman
may hate the very thought of a lie, yet often he finds
it hard to tell the truth to a woman.
“Do I look white?” I said. “Then
it is because I have a sudden pang of sorrow.
For one moment I deemed that proud damsel was the
lady of my love, whom, in verity, she most strangely
favours, so that you might think them sisters.
But alas! she is but the daughter of a good Scots
knight at Chinon, whom I have seen there before to-day,
and marvelled how much she and my lady favour each
other. Therefore am I pale, because that hope
of mine is broken. And you know her face, belike,
from my poor picture of my lady.”
Charlotte looked at me steadily, and flushed red;
but even then, one who rode by among the men-at-arms
noted me, and, waving his arm towards me, cried in
a loud voice—
“Hail, fair son, soon will I be with thee!”
and so, turning in his saddle to watch me, he laughed
a loud laugh and rode onwards. He was my master,
and as my eyes followed him, Charlotte spoke.
“And who is that great Scot, with his Scots
twang of the tongue, who called you ‘son’?
By the Mass, she was your lady, and yonder wight is
her father, of whom you have spoken to me more than
once”; for, indeed, I had told her all the story
of my loves.
Then I was confused, for I could no longer deny the
truth, and not having one word to say, I sighed from
my heart.
