ommanded the king, sternly. A sound of suppressed merriment
even as he spoke startled the gathering. "Who laughed?" he cried
suddenly. "Was it you, mistress?" fastening his eyes upon the young
woman.

Her head fell lower and lower like some dark flower on a slender stem.
From out of the veil of her mazy hair came a voice, soft with seeming
humility.

"It might have been Jocko, Sire," she said. "He sometimes laughs like
that."

The king looked from the woman to the bird; then from the bird to the
woman, a gleam of recollection in his glance.

"Humph!" he muttered. "Is this where you serve your mistress? Look to
it you serve not yourself ill!"

An instant her eyes flashed upward.

"My mistress is at prayers," she answered, and looked down again as
quickly.

"And you meanwhile prefer the drollery of these madcaps to the
attentions of our courtiers?" said Francis, more gently. "Certes are
you gipsy-born!"

Her hands clasped tighter, but she answered not, and he turned more
sternly to the new king of the motley. "As for you," he continued,
"for the present the duke's gift is spared. But let the princess' fool
look to himself. Remember, a guarded tongue insures a ripe old age,
and even a throne in Fools' hall is fraught with hazard. Here! some of
you, take this"--indicating the sleeping Rabelais--"and throw it into
the horse-pond. Yet see that he does not drown--your heads upon it!
'Tis to him France looks for learning."

He paused; glanced back at the kneeling girl. "You, Mistress
Who-Seeks-to-Hide-Her-Face, teach that parrot not to laugh!" he added
grimly.

The tapestry waved. Mute the motley throng stared where the king had
stood. A light hand touched the arm of the duke's fool, and, turning,
he beheld the young woman; her eyes were alight with new fire.

"In God's name," she exclaimed, passionately, "let us leave. You have
done mischief enough. Follow me."

"Where'er you will," he responded gallantly.

CHAPTER III

A GIFT FOR THE DUKE

The sun and the breeze contended with the mist, intrenched in the
stronghold of the valley. From the east the red orb began its attack;
out of the west rode the swift-moving zephyrs, and, vanquished, the
wavering vapor stole off into thin air, or hung in isolated wreaths above
the foliage on the hillside. Soon the conquering light brightly
illumined a medieval castle commanding the surrounding country; the
victorious breeze whispered loudly at