From the dark corner came a stifled cry and piping gurgle.  “My lady, oh, my lady!”

“How now, black; let go my skirt.”

“Mistress, let me whisper close.  He need not die, thy lover.”

“Hast thou some scheme?  Quick, tell it to me.”

“First speak the word to let me live.”

“Aye, we spare thy life—­but haste!”

“He is but a young stripling; his bones are not yet set and hardened.  Let him be made the king’s mute.”

The jester heard the words.  He flung himself upon the eunuch, and grasping his throat, throttled him until his black face ran with shiny sweat and his great white eyes hung nearly from their sockets.  “I feared that thou wouldst dare to speak of that—­squealing coward—­I might have known it.”  Again he whacked the woolly head against the pavement.

The captain dragged them apart.  “Why so wroth, fool?” he asked.  “Sooth, ’tis a wise plan, and one to save me a deal of trouble.  For it was my special commission from the king to furnish a new mute.  And since the lad must suffer, lady—­come, by the Holy Tokens, I’ll make a bond with thee.  I’ll spare his life, an’ ye say nought of it to the king.  I’ll keep intact his pulse and true heart’s beat; and thou, in turn, give me his lower limbs to twist and his doll’s face to alter—­only to alter slightly,” and he laughed lewdly.

Lady Suelva moved to look at the dead mute; but the wily black had thrust himself before the face and hid its loathsomeness.  “Do as he bids, mistress,” he whispered.  “Let thy lover live and love thee.  Let him have life.”

“And what a life!” cried the jester.  “Oh, noble lady, be merciful and let him die.”

“Would not the king or some one recognize him?” she asked.

“No,” answered the captain; “he is but lately come to court—­and anyway, there’s none would recognize him after—­”

“Might he not some day blurt out the truth?”

“Ho, you forget:  mutes make safe lovers, for they have no tongues.”

She recoiled.  “True.  And so, may he love me fearlessly in such a guise?”

“Aye, and thou him—­that we promise thee.”

She dropped to her knees, beside the unconscious squire.  She took his head in her lap, and with her warm hands brushed back the locks from his bruised forehead.  “He is so beautiful,” she sighed, wavering.  “It were a shame—­”

“He would never be beautiful again,” said the jester.

“Rather an ugly lover than a dead one,” retorted the captain.

Lady Suelva fell to sobbing.  “Canst thou not spare him altogether?”

“Nay! nay!” He stamped his foot impatiently.  “And it were best to hurry.”

“Only wait till he awakes from the hard blow thou gavest him.  He will decide for himself.”

“’Twill be by far less painful if done now.”

“Then take him.”

“Think well and long,” said the jester. “’Tis a life of hell thou wouldst prolong him to.  The jeers, the coarse and ribald laughter of the court, the scorn and teasing—­aye—­God!  I know the life, for I too suffer as a courtier’s play-thing—­and yet, I have a straight body and a human face and a tongue to answer with.  What canst thou offer him to compensate for all his loss and misery?”