He told her all.  King Henry, it appeared, had dealt with him at Havering in perfect frankness.  The King needed money for his wars in France, and failing the seizure of Jehane’s enormous wealth, had exhausted every resource.  “And France I mean to have,” the King said.  “Now the world knows you enjoy the favor of the Comte de Charolais; so get me an alliance with Burgundy against my imbecile brother of France, and Dame Jehane shall repossess her liberty.  There you have my price.”

“And this price I paid,” the Vicomte sternly said, “for ’Unhardy is unseely,’ Satan whispered, and I knew that Duke Philippe trusted me.  Yea, all Burgundy I marshalled under your stepson’s banner, and for three years I fought beneath his loathed banner, until at Troyes we had trapped and slain the last loyal Frenchman.  And to-day in France my lands are confiscate, and there is not an honest Frenchman but spits upon my name.  All infamy I come to you for this last time, Jehane! as a man already dead I come to you, Jehane, for in France they thirst to murder me, and England has no further need of Montbrison, her blunted and her filthy instrument!”

The woman nodded here.  “You have set my thankless service above your life, above your honor.  I find the rhymester glorious and very vile.”

“All vile,” he answered; “and outworn!  King’s daughter, I swore to you, long since, eternal service.  Of love I freely gave you yonder in Navarre, as yonder at Eltham I crucified my innermost heart for your delectation.  Yet I, at least, keep faith, and in your face I fling faith like a glove—­outworn, it may be, and God knows, unclean!  Yet I, at least, keep faith!  Lands and wealth have I given, up for you, O king’s daughter, and life itself have I given you, and lifelong service have I given you, and all that I had save honor; and at the last I give you honor, too.  Now let the naked fool depart, Jehane, for he has nothing more to give.”

While the Vicomte de Montbrison spoke thus, she had leaned upon the sill of an open casement.  “Indeed, it had been better,” she said, still with her face averted, and gazing downward at the tree-tops beneath, “it had been far better had we never met.  For this love of ours has proven a tyrannous and evil lord.  I have had everything, and upon each feast of will and sense the world afforded me this love has swept down, like a harpy—­was it not a harpy you called the bird in that old poem of yours?—­to rob me of delight.  And you have had nothing, for he has pilfered you of life, giving only dreams in exchange, my poor Antoine, and he has led you at the last to infamy.  We are as God made us, and—­I may not understand why He permits this despotism.”

Thereafter, somewhere below, a peasant sang as he passed supperward through the green twilight, lit as yet by one low-hanging star alone.

Sang the peasant: 

  “King Jesus hung upon the Cross,
  ‘And have ye sinned?’ quo’ He,—. 
  ’Nay, Dysmas, ’tis no honest loss
  When Satan cogs the dice ye toss,
  And thou shall sup with Me,—­
  Sedebis apud angelos,
  Quia amavisti!’