In place of that monstrous passion which had at first view of her possessed the priest, now, like a sheltered taper, glowed an adoration which made him yearn, in defiance of common-sense, to suffer somehow for this beautiful and gracious comrade; though very often pity for her loneliness and knowledge that she dared trust no one save him would throttle Maudelain like two assassins, and would move the hot-blooded young man to a rapture of self-contempt and exultation.

Now Maudelain made excellent songs, it was a matter of common report.  Yet but once in their close friendship did the Queen command him to make a song for her.  This had been at Dover, about vespers, in the starved and tiny garden overlooking the English Channel, upon which her apartments faced; and the priest had fingered his lute for an appreciable while before he sang, more harshly than was his custom.

Sang Maudelain: 

  “Ave Maria! now cry we so
  That see night wake and daylight go.

  “Mother and Maid, in nothing incomplete,
  This night that gathers is more light and fleet
  Than twilight trod alway with stumbling feet,
  Agentes semper uno animo.

  “Ever we touch the prize we dare not take! 
  Ever we know that thirst we dare not slake! 
  Yet ever to a dreamed-of goal we make—­
  Est tui coeli in palatio!

  “Long, long the road, and set with many a snare;
  And to how small sure knowledge are we heir
  That blindly tread, with twilight everywhere! 
  Volo in toto; sed non valeo!

  “Long, long the road, and very frail are we
  That may not lightly curb mortality,
  Nor lightly tread together steadfastly,
  Et parvum carmen unum facio: 

  “Mater, ora filium,
  Ut post hoc exilium
  Nobis donet gaudium
  Beatorum omnium!”

Dame Anne had risen.  She said nothing.  She stayed in this posture for a lengthy while, one hand yet clasping each breast.  Then she laughed, and began to speak of Long Simon’s recent fever.  Was there no method of establishing him in another cottage?  No, the priest said, the peasants, like the cattle, were always deeded with the land, and Simon could not lawfully be taken away from his owner.

One day, about the hour of prime, in that season of the year when fields smell of young grass, the Duke of Gloucester sent for Edward Maudelain.  The court was then at Windsor.  The priest came quickly to his patron.  He found the Duke in company with the King’s other uncle Edmund of York and bland Harry of Derby, who was John of Gaunt’s oldest son, and in consequence the King’s cousin.  Each was a proud and handsome man:  Derby alone (who was afterward King of England) had inherited the squint that distinguished this family.  To-day Gloucester was gnawing at his finger nails, big York seemed half-asleep, and the Earl of Derby appeared patiently to await something as yet ineffably remote.