“Doubtless, by the advice of God,” Alain said:  “for I have read in Master Roger de Wendover’s Chronicles of how at the dread day of judgment all the Irish are to muster before the high and pious Patrick, as their liege lord and father in the spirit, and by him be conducted into the presence of God; and of how, by virtue of Saint Patrick’s request, all the Irish will die seven years to an hour before the second coming of Christ, in order to give the blessed saint sufficient time to marshal his company, which is considerable.”  Katharine admitted the convenience of this arrangement, as well as the neglect of her education.  Alain gazed up at her for a long while, as if in reflection, and presently said:  “Doubtless the Lady Heleine of Argos also was thus starry-eyed and found in books less diverting reading than in the faces of men.”  It flooded Katharine’s cheeks with a livelier hue, but did not vex her irretrievably; if she chose to read this man’s face, the meaning was plain enough.

I give you the gist of their talk, and that in all conscience is trivial.  But it was a day when one entered love’s wardship with a plunge, not in more modern fashion venturing forward bit by bit, as though love were so much cold water.  So they talked for a long while, with laughter mutually provoked and shared, with divers eloquent and dangerous pauses.  The harper squatted upon the ground, the Princess leaned over the wall; but to all intent they sat together upon the loftiest turret of Paradise, and it was a full two hours before Katharine hinted at departure.

Alain rose, approaching the wall.  “To-morrow I ride for Milan to take service with Duke Filippo.  I had broken my journey these three days past at Chateauneuf yonder, where this fox has been harrying my host’s chickens.  To-day I went out to slay him, and he led me, his murderer, to the fairest lady earth may boast.  Do you not think that, in returning good for evil, this fox was a true Christian, my Princess?”

Katharine said:  “I lament his destruction.  Farewell, Messire Alain!  And since chance brought you hither—­”

“Destiny brought me hither,” Alain affirmed, a mastering hunger in his eyes.  “Destiny has been kind; I shall make a prayer to her that she continue so.”  But when Katharine demanded what this prayer would be, Alain shook his tawny head.  “Presently you shall know, Highness, but not now.  I return to Chateauneuf on certain necessary businesses; to-morrow I set out at cockcrow for Milan and the Visconti’s livery.  Farewell!” He mounted and rode away in the golden August sunlight, the hounds frisking about him.  The fox-brush was fastened in his hat.  Thus Tristran de Leonois may have ridden a-hawking in drowned Cornwall, thus statelily and composedly, Katharine thought, gazing after him.  She went to her apartments, singing an inane song about the amorous and joyful time of spring when everything and everybody is happy,—­

  “El tems amoreus plein de joie,
  El tems ou tote riens s’esgaie,—­”