“No mockery here, my fair sweet friend.  No, I have told my father all which happened yesterday.  I pleaded for you.  He questioned me very closely.  And when I had ended, he stroked his beard, and presently struck one hand upon the table.  ‘Out of the mouth of babes!’ he said.  Then he said:  ’My dear, I believe for certain that this lady and her son have been driven from their kingdom wrongfully.  If it be for the good of God to comfort the afflicted, how much more is it commendable to help and succor one who is the daughter of a king, descended from royal lineage, and to whose blood we ourselves are related!’ And accordingly he and your mother have their heads together yonder, planning an invasion of England, no less, and the dethronement of your wicked father, my Edward.  And accordingly—­hail, King of England!” The girl clapped her hands gleefully.  The nightingale sang.

But the boy kept momentary silence.  Not even in youth were the men of his race handicapped by excessively tender hearts; yesterday in the shrubbery the boy had kissed this daughter of Count William, in part because she was a healthy and handsome person, and partly because great benefit might come of an alliance with her father.  Well! the Prince had found chance-taking not unfortunate.  With the episode as foundation, Count William had already builded up the future queenship of England.  The strong Count could do—­and, as it seemed, was now in train to do—­indomitable deeds to serve his son-in-law; and now the beggar of five minutes since foresaw himself, with this girl’s love as ladder, mounting to the high habitations of the King of England, the Lord of Ireland, and the Duke of Aquitaine.  Thus they would herald him.

So he embraced the girl.  “Hail, Queen of England!” said the Prince; and then, “If I forget—­” His voice broke awkwardly.  “My dear, if ever I forget—!” Their lips met now.  The nightingale discoursed as if on a wager.

Presently was mingled with the bird’s descant another kind of singing.  Beyond the yew-hedge as these two stood silent, breast to breast, passed young Jehan Kuypelant, one of the pages, fitting to the accompaniment of a lute his paraphrase of the song which Archilochus of Sicyon very anciently made in honor of Venus Melaenis, the tender Venus of the Dark.

At a gap in the hedge the young Brabanter paused.  His singing ended, gulped.  These two, who stood heart hammering against heart, saw for an instant Jehan Kuypelant’s lean face silvered by the moonlight, his mouth a tiny abyss.  Followed the beat of lessening footfalls, while the nightingale improvised an envoi.

But earlier Jehan Kuypelant also had sung, as though in rivalry with the bird.

Sang Jehan Kuypelant: 

  “Hearken and heed, Melaenis! 
  For all that the litany ceased
  When Time had pilfered the victim,
  And flouted thy pale-lipped priest,
  And set astir in the temple
  Where burned the fires of thy shrine
  The owls and wolves of the desert—­
  Yet hearken, (the issue is thine!)
  And let the heart of Atys,
  At last, at last, be mine!