orn. "Peep, peep," twittered a bird on the roof
of the hovel. From the poplar it was answered by a more melodious
phrase, a song of welcome to the radiant dawn. A moment the jester
listened, his head raised to the growing splendor of the heavens, then
threw himself on the earthen floor of the hut and was at once overcome
with sleep.

CHAPTER XXII

THE TALE OF THE SWORD

The slanting rays of the sinking sun shot athwart the valley, glanced
from the tile roofs of the homes of the peasantry, and illumined the
lofty towers of a great manorial chateau. To the rider, approaching by
the road that crossed the smiling pasture and meadow lands, the edifice
set on a mount--another of Francis' transformations from the gloomy
fortress home--appeared regal and splendid, compared with the humbler
houses of the people lying prostrate before it. Viewed from afar, the
town seemed to abase itself in the presence of the architectural
preeminence of that monarch of buildings. Even the sun, when it
withdrew its rays from the miscellaneous rabble of shops and dwellings,
yet lingered proudly upon the noble structure above, caressing its
imposing and august outlines and surrounding it with the glamour of the
afterglow, when the sun sank to rest.

Into the little town, at the foot of the big house, rode shortly before
nightfall the jester and his companion. During the day the young girl
had seemed diffident and constrained; she who had been all vivacity and
life, on a sudden kept silence, or when she did speak, her tongue had
lost its sharpness. The weapons of her office, bright sarcasm and
irony, or laughing persiflage, were sheathed; her fine features were
thoughtful; her dark eyes introspective. In the dazzling sunshine, the
memory of their ride through the gorge; the awakening at the shepherd's
hut; something in his look then, something in his accents later, when
he spoke her name while she professed to sleep--seemed, perhaps,
unreal, dream-like.

His first greeting that morning had been a swift, almost questioning,
glance, before which she had looked away. In her face was the
freshness of dawn; the grace of spring-tide. Overhead sang a lark; at
their feet a brook whispered; around them solitude, vast, infinite. He
spoke and she answered; her reserve became infectious; they ate their
oaten cakes and drank their wine, each strongly conscious of the
presence of the other. Then he rose, saddled their horses, and
assist