“They but rejoice that our Lord is born.”

So the child Clotilde stood at her window and gazed to where the plain stretched as far as she could see and as far again.  And there was her mother.  She would go to her and bring her back, or perhaps failing that, she might be allowed to stay.

Here no one would miss her.  The odour of cooking food filled the great house, loud laughter, the clatter of mug on board.  Her old nurse was below, decorating a boar’s head with berries and a crown.

Because it was the Truce of God and a festival, the gates stood open.  She reached the foot of the hill safely.  Stragglers going up and down the steep way regarded her without suspicion.  So she went through the Square past the roasting steer, and by a twisting street into the open country.

When she stopped to rest it was to look back with wistful eyes toward the frowning castle on the cliff.  For a divided allegiance was hers.  Passionately as she loved her mother, her indomitable spirit was her father’s heritage, his fierceness was her courage, and she loved him as the small may love the great.

The Fool found her at the edge of the river.  She had forgotten that there was a river.  He was on his great horse, and he rode up by the child and looked down at her.

“It was I who captured him,” he boasted.  “The others ran, but I caught him, so.”  He dismounted to illustrate.

“It is not because you were brave that you captured him.”

“Then why?” He stood with his feet wide apart, looking down at her.

“It is because you have slept in a manger on a Holy Eve.”

“Aye,” he responded, “but that was a matter of courage, too.  There were many strange noises.  Also, in the middle of the night came Our Lady herself and said to me:  ’Hereafter thou shalt sing with the voice of an angel.’”

“I should like to see Our Lady,” said the child wistfully.

“Also,” pursued the Fool, “She gave me power over great beasts.  See!  He fears me, while he loves me.”

And indeed there seemed some curious kinship between the horse and the lad, perhaps because the barrier of keen human mind was not between them.

“Think you,” said the little maid, “if I slept where you did She would appear to me?  I would not ask much, only to be made a lad like you, and, perhaps, to sing.”

“But I am a simpleton.  Instead of wit I have but a voice and now—­a horse.”

“A lad like you,” she persisted, “so that my father would love me and my mother might come back again?”

“Better stay as you are,” said the Fool.  “Also, there will be no Holy Eve again for a long time.  It comes but once a year.  Also it is hard times for men who must either fight or work in the fields.  I—­” He struck his chest.  “I shall do neither.  And I shall cut no more wood.  I go adventuring.”

Clotilde rose and drew her grey cloak around her.