by the clock)
he saw his profit fair. The infatuation of the girl for this man or that
man was nothing; but the infatuation of the great Count of Poictou for
her set Eudo's heart ablaze. God willing, Saint Maclou assisting, he
might live to call Jehane 'My Lady Queen.' He shut his ears to report;
there were those who called Richard a rake, and others who called him
'Yea-and-Nay'; that was Bertran de Born's name for him, and all Paris
knew it. He shut his eyes to Richard's galling unconcern with himself
and his dignity. Dignity of Saint-Pol! He would wait for his dignity. He
shut his mind to Jehane's blown fame, to the threatenings of his
dreadful Norman neighbour, Henry the old king, who had had an archbishop
pole-axed like a steer; he dared the anger of his suzerain, in whose
hands lay Jehane's marriage; a heady gambler, he staked the fortunes of
his house upon this clinging of a girl to a wild prince. And now to tell
himself that he deserved what he had got was but to feed his rage. Again
he swore by God's teeth that he would have his way; and when he left his
castle of Saint-Pol-la-Marche it was for Paris.

The head of his house, under the Emperor Henry, was there, Conrad of
Montferrat, trying to negotiate the crown of Jerusalem. There must be a
conference before the house of Saint-Pol could be let to fall. Surely
the Marquess would never allow it! He must spike the wheel. Was not
Alois of France within the degrees? She was sister to the French King:
well, but what was Richard's mother? She had been wife to Louis, wife to
Alois' father. Was this decency? What would the Pope say--an Italian?
Was the Marquess Conrad an Italian for nothing? Was 'our cousin' the
Emperor of no account, King of the Romans? The Pope Italian, the
Marquess Italian, the Emperor on his throne, and God in His heaven--eh,
eh! there should be a conference of these high powers. So, and with such
whirl of question and answer, did the Count of Saint-Pol beat out to
Paris.

But Jehane remained at Saint-Pol-la-Marche, praying much, going little
abroad, seeing few persons. Then came (since rumour is a gadabout) Sir
Gilles de Gurdun, as she knew he would, and knelt before her, and kissed
her hand. Gilles was a square-shouldered, thick-set youth of the black
Norman sort, ruddy, strong-jawed, small-eyed, low in the brow,
bullet-headed. He was no taller than she, looked shorter, and had
nothing to say. He had loved her since the time when she was an
overg