“What tho’ the floures be riche and rare
      of hue and fragrancie,
    What tho’ the giver be kinde and fair,
      they have no charme for me.

    The wreathe whose brightest budde is gone
      is not ye wreathe I’de prise: 
    I’de pluck another, and so passe on,
      with unregardfull eyes.

    And so the heart whose sweet resorte
      an hundred rivalls share
    May yielde a moment’s passing sporte,
      but Love’s an alyen there.”

“He is unpolite, my sister,” cried Marguerite, laughing.  “But that is only because he is sore.  The wounded bird has moulted a feather in his empty nest.”

“All the same, he is flown,” answered Mdme. de Maufant, gravely.

“N’importe,” answered the damsel.  “Leave him to me.  I can whistle him back when I want him—­if I ever do.”

Leaving the ladies to the discussion of the topic thus set afoot, let us turn to the more prosaic combinations of the rougher, if not harder, sex. Majora canamus!

About four miles south-east of the manor-house, the old Castle of Gorey arose out of the sea, almost as if it grew there, a part of the granite crag.  A survival of the rude warfare of Plantagenet times, it bore—­as it still does—­the self assertive name of “Mont Orgueil,” and boasted itself the only English fortress that had ever resisted the avenger of France, the constable Bertrand du Guesclin.  But, in spite of its pride, it proved to be commanded by a yet higher point, sufficiently near to throw round shot into the Castle in the more advanced days to which our tale relates.  For this reason, and also because of the smallness of the harbour at its feet, Mont Orgueil had given way to the growing importance of S. Helier, protected by its virgin Castle.  Hence the place, though not quite in ruins, had sunk to a minor and subordinate character; the Hall, in which the States had once assembled, was neglected and dirty; the chambers formerly appropriated to the Governor and his family were used as cells, or not used at all; the garden was unweeded; and Mont Orgueil in general had sunk to be a prison and a watch-tower.  None the less proudly did it rise—­as it does still—­with a protecting air above its little town and port, and look defiance upon the opposite shores of Normandy.

In a narrow guard-room on the South side of this castle, a few days later than the visit of La Cloche to the King, the Lieutenant-Governor was sitting at a heavy oaken table, with his steel cap before him and his basket-hilted sword hung by the belt from the back of his carven chair.  A writer sate at the left-hand side of the same table, and between them lay militia muster-rolls and other papers.  At the further end of the room, between two halberdiers in scarlet doublets, stood a tall Jerseyman in squalid garments, his legs in fetters, his wrists in manacles.  Keen little grey eyes peered through the neglected black hair that fell over his narrow brow; and his iron-grey beard showed signs of long neglect.