ears of joy. Thus brilliantly
ended the first tournament witnessed by the Scottish princesses. Eleanor
had been most interested on the whole in Duke Sigismund, and had exulted
in his successes, and been sorry to see him defeated, but then she knew
that Yolande dreaded his victory, and she suspected that he did not
greatly care for Yolande, so that, since he was not hurt, and was
certainly the second in the field, she could look on with complacency.

Moreover, at the evening's dance, when Margaret and Suffolk, Ferry
and Yolande stood up for a stately pavise together, Sigismund came to
Eleanor, and while she was thinking whether or not to condole with
him, he shyly mumbled something about not regretting--being free--the
Dauphin, her brother, enduring a beaten knight. It was all in a mixture
of French and German, mostly of the latter, and far less comprehensible
than usual, unless, indeed, maidenly shyness made her afraid to
understand or to seem to do so. He kept on standing by her, both
of them, mute and embarrassed, not quite unconscious that they were
observed, perhaps secretly derided by some of the lookers-on. The first
relief was when the Dauphiness came and sat down by her sister, and
began to talk fast in French, scarce heeding whether the Duke understood
or answered her.

One question he asked was, who was the red-faced young man with stubbly
sunburnt hair, and a scar on his cheek, who had appeared in the lists in
very gaudy but ill-fitting armour, and with a great raw-boned, snorting
horse, and now stood in a corner of the hall with his eyes steadily
fixed on the Lady Joanna.

'So!' said Sigismund. 'That fellow is the Baron Rudiger von Batchburg
Der Schelm! How has he the face to show himself here?'

'Is he one of your Borderers--your robber Castellanes?' asked Margaret.

'Even so! His father's castle of Balchenburg is so cunningly placed on
the march between Elsass and Lothringen that neither our good host nor
I can fully claim it, and these rogues shelter themselves behind one
or other of us till it is, what they call in Germany a Rat Castle, the
refuge of all the ecorcheurs and routiers of this part of the country.
They will bring us both down on them one of these days, but the place is
well-nigh past scaling by any save a gemsbock or an ecorcheur!'

Jean herself had remarked the gaze of the Alsatian mountaineer. It was
the chief homage that her beauty had received, and she was somewhat
mortified at bei