dialect of it, rougher even than Gascon.  Conversation was very difficult on these terms.  At first the Princess was shy; then (when she grew curious and forgot her qualms) Jehane was shy.  Berengere fingered the jewel in the other’s neck, turned it about, wanted to know whence it had come, whose gift it was, etc., etc.  Jehane blushed to report it the gift of a friend; whereupon the Princess looked her up and down in a way that made her hot all over.

But when it came to the time of meeting King Richard, Berengere’s nervous fears came crowding back; the poor little creature began to shake, clung to Jehane.  ’How tall is the king, how tall is he?  Taller than you?’ she asked, looking up at the Picard girl.

‘Oh, yes, Madame, he is taller than I.’

‘They say he is cruel.  Did you—­do you think him cruel?’

‘Madame, no, no.’

‘He is a poet, they say.  Has he made many songs of me?’

Jehane murmured her doubts, exquisitely confused.

‘Fifty poets,’ continued nestling Berengere, ’have made songs of me.  There is a wreath of songs.  They call me Frozen Heart:  do you know why?  They say I am too proud to love a poet.  But if the poet is a king!  I have a certain fear just now.  I think I will—­’ She took Jehane’s arm—­’No! no!’ She drew away.  ’You are too tall—­I will never take your arm—­I am ashamed.  I beg you to go before me.  Lead the way.’

So Jehane went first of all the ladies who led the Queen to the King.

King Richard, who himself loved to go splendidly, sat upon his throne in the citadel looking like a statue of gold and ivory.  Upon his head was a crown of gold, he had a long tunic of white velvet, round his shoulders a great cope of figured gold brocade, work of Genoa, and very curious.  His face and hands were paler than their wont was, his eyes frosty blue, like a winter sea that is made bright, not warm, by the sun.  He sat up stiffly, hands on knees; and all about him stood the lords and prelates of the most sumptuous court in the West.  King Sancho the Wise was ready to stoop all his wisdom and burden of years before such superb state as this; but the moment his procession entered the hall Richard went down from his dais to meet it, kissed him on the cheek, asked how he did, and set the careworn man at his ease.  As for Berengere, he took from her of both cheeks, held her small hand, spoke in her own language honourable and cheerful words, drove a little colour into her face, screwed a word or two out of her.  Afterwards there was high mass, sung by the Archbishop of Auch, and a great banquet, served in the cloister-garth of the Charterhouse under a red canopy, because the hail of the citadel was too small.