entle Anne. He obeyed with joy the
summons of Louis, repaired to the court, was presented to Anne as the
Count de F----, found himself recognized at the first glance (for his
portrait still lay upon her heart, as his remembrance in its core), and,
twice before the song we have recited, had ventured, agreeably to the
sweet customs of Anjou, to address the lady of his love under the shade
of the starlit summer copses. But on this last occasion, he had departed
from his former discretion; hitherto he had selected an hour of deeper
night, and ventured but beneath the lattice of the maiden's chamber when
the rest of the palace was hushed in sleep. And the fearless declaration
of his rank and love now hazarded was prompted by one who contrived to
turn to grave uses the wildest whim of the minstrel, the most romantic
enthusiasm of youth.

Louis had just learned from Oxford the result of his interview with
Warwick. And about the same time the French king had received a letter
from Margaret, announcing her departure from the castle of Verdun for
Tours, where she prayed him to meet her forthwith, and stating that she
had received from England tidings that might change all her schemes, and
more than ever forbid the possibility of a reconciliation with the Earl
of Warwick.

The king perceived the necessity of calling into immediate effect the
aid on which he had relied, in the presence and passion of the young
prince. He sought him at once; he found him in a remote part of the
gardens, and overheard him breathing to himself the lay he had just
composed.

"Pasque Dieu!" said the king, laying his hand on the young man's
shoulder, "if thou wilt but repeat that song where and when I bid thee,
I promise that before the month ends Lord Warwick shall pledge thee his
daughter's hand; and before the year is closed thou shalt sit beside
Lord Warwick's daughter in the halls of Westminster."

And the royal troubadour took the counsel of the king.

The song had ceased; the minstrel emerged from the bosquets, and stood
upon the sward, as, from the postern of the palace, walked with a slow
step, a form from which it became him not, as prince or as lover, in
peace or in war, to shrink. The first stars had now risen; the light,
though serene, was pale and dim. The two men--the one advancing, the
other motionless--gazed on each other in grave silence. As Count
de F----, amidst the young nobles in the king's train, the earl had
scarcely noticed