The nuns, her present guardians, would have declared the ensuing action horrific, for Katharine smiled frankly at him and asked how could he thus recognise her at one glance.

He answered slowly:  “I have seen your portrait.  Hah, your portrait!” he jeered, head flung back and big teeth glinting in the sunlight.  “There is a painter who merits crucifixion.”

She considered this indicative of a cruel disposition, but also of a fine taste in the liberal arts.  Aloud she stated: 

“You are not a Frenchman, messire.  I do not understand how you can have seen my portrait.”

The man stood for a moment twiddling the fox-brush.  “I am a harper, my Princess.  I have visited the courts of many kings, though never that of France.  I perceive I have been woefully unwise.”

This trenched upon insolence—­the look of his eyes, indeed, carried it well past the frontier,—­but she found the statement interesting.  Straightway she touched the kernel of those fear-blurred legends whispered about Dom Manuel’s reputed descendants.

“You have, then, seen the King of England?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Is it true that in him, the devil blood of Oriander has gone mad, and that he eats children—­like Agrapard and Angoulaffre of the Broken Teeth?”

His gaze widened.  “I have heard a deal of scandal concerning the man. 
But certainly I never heard that.”

Katharine settled back, luxuriously, in the crotch of the apple-tree. 
“Tell me about him.”

Composedly he sat down upon the grass and began to acquaint her with his knowledge and opinions concerning Henry, the fifth of that name to reign in England, and the son of that squinting Harry of Derby about whom I have told you so much before.

Katharine punctuated the harper’s discourse with eager questionings, which are not absolutely to our purpose.  In the main, this harper thought the man now buffeting France a just king, and he had heard, when the crown was laid aside, Sire Henry was sufficiently jovial, and even prankish.  The harper educed anecdotes.  He considered that the King would manifestly take Rouen, which the insatiable man was now besieging.  Was the King in treaty for the hand of the Infanta of Aragon?  Yes, he undoubtedly was.

Katharine sighed her pity for this ill-starred woman.  “And now tell me about yourself.”

He was, it appeared, Alain Maquedonnieux, a harper by vocation, and by birth a native of Ireland.  Beyond the fact that it was a savage kingdom adjoining Cataia, Katharine knew nothing of Ireland.  The harper assured her that in this she was misinformed, since the kings of England claimed Ireland as an appanage, though the Irish themselves were of two minds as to the justice of these pretensions; all in all, he considered that Ireland belonged to Saint Patrick, and that the holy man had never accredited a vicar.