Time went very heavily with the lady, till she could get speech with her, whom she hated from the hour she knew her to be the friend of him who had caused her such shame and grief.  She was persuaded that for this reason he would not give her love, in return for that she set on him.  She confirmed herself in her purpose, that at such time and place she saw the Duke speaking with his niece, she would go swiftly to the lady, and tell out all her mind, hiding nothing because it was evil.  Neither time nor place was met, till Pentecost was come, and the Duke held high Court, commanding to the feast all the ladies of his realm, amongst the first that lady, his niece, who was the Chatelaine of Vergi.  When the Duchess looked on her, the blood pricked in her veins, for reason that she hated her more than aught else in the world.  She had the courage to hide her malice, and greeted the lady more gladly than ever she had done before.  But she yearned to show openly the anger that burned in her heart, and the delay was much against her mind.  On Pentecost, whilst the tables were removed, the Duchess brought the ladies to her chamber with her, that, apart from the throng, they might the more graciously attire them for the dance.  She deemed her hour had come, and having no longer the power to refrain her lips, she said gaily, as if in jest,

“Chatelaine, array yourself very sweetly, since there is a fair and worthy lord you have to please.”

The lady answered right simply,

“In truth, madam, I know not what you are thinking of; but for my part I wish for no such friendship as may not be altogether according to my honour and to that of my lord.”

“I grant that readily,” replied the Duchess, “you are a good mistress, and have an apt pupil in your little dog.”

The ladies returned with the Duchess to the hall, where the dances were already set.  They had listened to the tale, but could not mark the jest.  The chatelaine remained in the chamber.  Her colour came and went, and because of her wrath and trouble the heart throbbed thickly in her breast.  She passed within a tiring chamber, where a little maiden was lying at the foot of the bed; but for grief she might not perceive her.  The chatelaine flung herself upon the bed, bewailing her evil plight, for she was exceedingly sorrowful.  She said,

“Ah, Lord God, take pity on me!  What may this mean, that I have listened to my lady’s reproaches because of the training of my little dog!  This she can have learned from none—­as well I know—­save from him whom I have loved, and who has betrayed me.  He would never have shown her this thing, except that he was her familiar friend, and doubtless loves her more dearly than me, whom he has betrayed.  I see now the value of his oaths, since he finds it so easy to fail in his covenant.  Sweet God, and I loved him so fondly, more fondly than any woman has loved before; who never had him from my thoughts one single hour, whether