at pearls in leaf and scroll-work. From the waist upwards she was the
handle of the bell. This immoderation of her clothes, the fright she was
in--so nervous at first that she could hardly stand--became her very
ill. She was quite white in the face, with solemn black eyes, glazed and
expressionless; her little hands stuck out from her sides like a
puppet's. Handsome as no doubt she was, she looked a doll beside the
tall Jehane, who could have dandled her comfortably on her knee. She
spoke no language but her own, and that not the _langue d'oc_, but a
blurred dialect of it, rougher even than Gascon. Conversation was very
difficult on these terms. At first the Princess was shy; then (when she
grew curious and forgot her qualms) Jehane was shy. Berengere fingered
the jewel in the other's neck, turned it about, wanted to know whence it
had come, whose gift it was, etc., etc. Jehane blushed to report it the
gift of a friend; whereupon the Princess looked her up and down in a way
that made her hot all over.

But when it came to the time of meeting King Richard, Berengere's
nervous fears came crowding back; the poor little creature began to
shake, clung to Jehane. 'How tall is the king, how tall is he? Taller
than you?' she asked, looking up at the Picard girl.

'Oh, yes, Madame, he is taller than I.'

'They say he is cruel. Did you--do you think him cruel?'

'Madame, no, no.'

'He is a poet, they say. Has he made many songs of me?'

Jehane murmured her doubts, exquisitely confused.

'Fifty poets,' continued nestling Berengere, 'have made songs of me.
There is a wreath of songs. They call me Frozen Heart: do you know why?
They say I am too proud to love a poet. But if the poet is a king! I
have a certain fear just now. I think I will--' She took Jehane's
arm--'No! no!' She drew away. 'You are too tall--I will never take your
arm--I am ashamed. I beg you to go before me. Lead the way.'

So Jehane went first of all the ladies who led the Queen to the King.

King Richard, who himself loved to go splendidly, sat upon his throne in
the citadel looking like a statue of gold and ivory. Upon his head was a
crown of gold, he had a long tunic of white velvet, round his shoulders
a great cope of figured gold brocade, work of Genoa, and very curious.
His face and hands were paler than their wont was, his eyes frosty blue,
like a winter sea that is made bright, not warm, by the sun. He sat up
stiffly, hands on knees; and all about