ur. Tell me,
how shall I ride?"

"As a knight to the border; thence onward as a minstrel. In Spain
there's always a welcome for a blithe singer."

"'Tis fortunate I learned some Spanish love songs from a fair senora
who was in Charles' retinue the time he visited Francis," added
Caillette. "An I should fail?" he continued, more gravely.

"You will not fail," was the confident reply.

"I am of your mind, but things will happen--sometimes--and why do you
not speak to the princess herself--to warn her--"

"Speak to her!" repeated the duke's jester, a shadow on his brow.
"When he has appealed to her, perhaps--when--" He broke off abruptly.
His tone was proud; in his eyes a look which Caillette afterward
understood. As it was, the latter nodded his head wisely.

"A woman whose fancy is touched is--what she is," he commented,
generally. "Truly it would be a more thankless task, even, than
approaching the king. For women were ever creatures of caprice, not to
be governed by any court of logic, but by the whimsical, fantastic
rules of Marguerite's court. Court!" he exclaimed. "The word suggests
law; reason; where merit hath justice. Call it not Love's Court, but
love's caprice, or crochet. But look you, there's another channel to
the princess' mind--yonder black-browed maid--our ally in motley--when
she chooses to wear it--Jacqueline."

"She likes me not," returned the fool. "Would she believe me in such
an important matter?"

"I'm afraid not," tranquilly replied Caillette, "in view of the
improbability of your tale and the undoubted credentials held by this
pretender. For my part, to look at the fellow was almost enough. But
to the ladies, his brutality signifieth strength and power; and his
uncouthness, originality and genius. Marguerite, even, is prepossessed
in his favor and has written a platonic poem in his honor. As for the
princess"--pressing the other's arm gently--"do you not know, _mon
ami_, that women are all alike? There is but one they obey--the
king--that is as high as their ambitions can reach--and even him they
deceive. Why, the Countess d'Etampes--but this is no time for gossip.
We are fools, you and I, and love, my friend, is but broad farce at the
best."

Even as he spoke thus, however, from the lists came the voices of the
well-instructed heralds, secretaries of the occasion, who had delved
deeply into the practices of the merry and ancient pastime: "Love of
ladies! For you an