It little concerns any man to know how I slowly recovered my health after certain failings back into the shadow of death.  Therefore I need not tell how I was physicked, and bled, and how I drew on from a diet of milk to one of fish, and so to a meal of chicken’s flesh, till at last I could sit, wrapped up in many cloaks, on a seat in the garden, below a great mulberry tree.  In all this weary time I knew little, and for long cared less, as to what went on in the world and the wars.  But so soon as I could speak it was of Elliot that I devised, with my kind nurse, Charlotte Boucher, the young daughter of Jacques Boucher, the Duke’s treasurer, in whose house I lay.  She was a fair lass, and merry of mood, and greatly hove up my heart to fight with my disease.  It chanced that, as she tended me, when I was at my worst, she marked, hanging on a silken string about my neck, a little case of silver artfully wrought, wherein was that portrait of my mistress, painted by me before I left Chinon.  Being curious, like all girls, and deeming that the case held some relic, she opened it, I knowing nothing then of what she did.  But when I was well enough to lie abed and devise with her, it chanced that I was playing idly with my fingers about the silver case.

“Belike,” said Charlotte, “that is some holy relic, to which, maybe, you owe your present recovery.  Surely, when you are whole again, you have vowed a pilgrimage to the shrine of the saint, your friend?” Here she smiled at me gaily, for she was a right merry damsel, and a goodly.

“Nay,” she said, “I have done more for you than your physician, seeing that I, or the saint you serve, have now brought the red colour into these wan cheeks of yours.  Is she a Scottish saint, then? perchance St. Margaret, of whom I have read?  Will you not let me look at the sacred thing?”

“Nay,” said I.  “Methinks, from your smiling, that you have taken opportunity to see my treasure before to-day, being a daughter of our mother Eve.”

“She is very beautiful,” said Charlotte; “nay, show her to me again!”

With that I pressed the spring and opened the case, for there is no lover but longs to hear his lady commended, and to converse about her.  Yet I had spoken no word, for my part, about her beauty, having heard say that he who would be well with one woman does ill to praise another in her presence.

“Beautiful, indeed, she is,” said Charlotte.  “Never have I seen such eyes, and hair like gold, and a look so gracious!  And for thy pilgrimage to the shrine of this fair saint, where does she dwell?”

I told her at Chinon, or at Tours, or commonly wheresoever the Court might be, for that her father was the King’s painter.

“And you love her very dearly?”

“More than my life,” I said.  “And may the saints send you, demoiselle, as faithful a lover, to as fair a lady.”

“Nay,” she said, reddening.  “This is high treason, and well you wot that you hold no lady half so fair as your own.  Are you Scots so smooth-spoken?  You have not that repute.  Now, what would you give to see that lady?”