“Loves me—­loves me not!” she said, bearing upon the last word with triumphant accent, as she continued to dismantle the poor flower.

And flashing round upon me with the solitary petal in her hand, she presented it with a low bow, in elfish mockery of the manner of the court exquisite.

“Ah, true flower!” she said, apostrophizing the bare stalk, “a flower cannot lie.  It has not a glozing tongue.  It cannot change back and forth.  The sun shines.  It turns towards the sun.  The sun leaves the skies.  It shuts itself up and waits his return.  Ah,-true flower, dear flower, how unlike a man you are!”

“Helene,” said I, “you have learned conceits from the catch-books.  You quarrel by rote.  Were I as eager to answer me, I might say:  ’Ah, false flower, you grow out of the foulness underneath.  You give your fragrance to all without discretion—­a common lover, prodigal of favors, fit only to be torn to shreds by pretty, spiteful fingers, and to die at last with a lie in your mouth.  Again I say—­false flower!’”

“You can turn the corners, Sir Juggler, with the cup and ball of words,” answered Helene.  “So much they have already taught you in a court.  But there is one thing that your fine-feathered tutors have not taught you—­to make love to two women in one house and hide it from both of them.  Hot and cold may not come too near each other.  They will mix and make lukewarm of both.”

A wise observation, and one that I wished I had made myself.

“May the devil take all princes and princesses!” I began, as I had done to the Prince himself.

Helene shook her head.

“Hugo,” she said, “I was but a simpleton when I came hither, and knew nothing.  Now I am wise, and I know!”

She touched her forehead with her finger, just where the curls were softest and prettiest.

“Oh, you have learned to be thrice more beautiful than ever you were!” I said, impetuously.

“So I am often told,” answered she, calmly.

“Who dared tell you ?” cried I, quick as fire, laying my hand on my sword.

“The false common flowers by the wayside tell me!” said Helene, pertly.

“Let them beware, or I will take their heads off for rank weeds!” I answered.

For at that time, in the Court of Plassenburg, we talked in figures and romance words.  We had indeed become so familiar with the mode that we could use no other, even in times of earnestness.  So that a man would go to be hanged or married with a quipsome conceit on his lips.

“I think, Sir Janus Double-tongue,” she said, “that you would not be the worse of a little medicine of your own concocting.”

And with that she swept her skirts daintily about and tripped down in to the pleasaunce of flowers, to make which the Prince Karl had brought a skilled gardener all the way from France.

I prowled about the higher terrace, moodily watching the sky and thinking on the morrow’s weather.  And by-and-by I saw one come forth from among the cropped Dutch hedges, and stride across to where Helene walked with something white in her hand.  I could see her again picking a flower to pieces, and methought I could hear the words.  My jealous fancy conjured up the ending, “Loves me not—­loves me!  Loves me not!”