m aside, and descending the steps entered the great
hall. Here the crowd was so great that we were barely able to move;
but at last we reached a pillar, on the base of which I placed my
charge, and, standing beside her, we looked here, there, and everywhere
for the Queen and De Lorgnac.

"I do not see them," whispered mademoiselle.

"'Tis like searching for a needle in sand; but, if I mistake not,
Madame de Poitiers will prove a magnet. Let us keep our eyes there."

With this I pointed before me towards the upper end of the hall, where
a large empty space was reserved for dancing, though for the present
the music had ceased, and the musicians were seated idle in the
galleries above. Beyond this space was a dais, surmounted by a canopy
of pale blue silk, spangled with the silver crescents of Diane de
Poitiers. Behind the dais ran a huge buffet, many stages in height,
rich with matchless plate, and in the centre was a sword, an enormous
cross-hilted sword, said to be the Joyeuse of Charlemagne.

On each side of the dais stood the two hundred gentlemen of the King's
house in violet and gold, the bright steel blades of the battle-axes
they bore on their shoulders reflecting back the light in dazzling
rays, and immediately in front stood the herald Montjoy with his
trumpeters.

Although every soul in the crowd wore a mask and hood there were many
on the dais who wore no disguise, and amongst these was the King.
Henri was clad in white, with a white plume in his cap, in memory of
the day years ago when, arrayed in white armour, he had ridden the
lists at Fontainebleau in honour of Diane, and borne her arms to
victory. Near him was Laval, the gallant Bois-Dauphin, who ran the
King hard in that gentle day, and, but for the short splintering of a
lance, might have been declared the victor. He too was clad in memory
of the day, all in scarlet, with a phoenix for his crest--the arms of
Claude de Foix. For the moment he was engaged in talk with a brilliant
cavalier, the Bayard of his age, Francis, Marquis de Vieilleville.

But though here and there a great name, or a striking figure on the
dais, might attract attention, almost all interest was centred on a
woman, who stood with the fingers of one hand resting lightly on the
King's arm. It was Diane de Poitiers herself. Tall, with black,
curling hair and perfect features, with dark, melting eyes, she bore
herself as a queen. The royal jewels of France sparkled on her