‘Madame, how is it with your Grace?’ he said.  The little lady quivered, but took no notice.

‘Madame,’ said Saint-Pol again, ’I am a peer of France, but a knight before all.  I am come to serve your Grace with my manhood.  I pray you speak to me.’  The Marquess folded his arms; his large white face was a sight to see.

Queen Berengere’s palms were bleeding a little where her nails had broken the skin.  She was quite white; but her eyes, burning black, had no pupils.  When Saint-Pol spoke for the second time she shook beyond all control and threw her head about.  Also she spoke.

’I suffer, I suffer horribly.  It is cruel beyond understanding or knowledge that a girl should suffer as I suffer.  Where is God?  Where is Mary?  Where are the angels?’

‘Dearest Madame, dearest Madame,’ said the cooing women, and one stroked her face.  But the Queen shook the hand off, and went wailing on, saying more than she could have meant.

’Is it good usage of the daughter of a king, Lord Jesus?  Is this the way of marriage, that the bride be left on her wedding day?’ She jumped up on her couch and took hold of her bosom in the sight of men.  ’She hath given him a child!  He is with her now.  Am I not fit for children?  Shall there never be milk?  Oh, oh, here is more shame than I can bear!’ She hid her face in her hands, and rocked herself about.

Montferrat (really moved) said low to Saint-Pol:  ’Are we knights to suffer these wrongs to be?’ Said Saint-Pol with a sob in his voice, ’Ah, God, mend it!’

‘He will,’ said Montferrat, ‘if we help to mend.’

This reminded Saint-Pol of his own words to De Gurdun; so he made haste to throw himself before the Queen, that he might still be pure in his devotion.  ‘My lady Berengere,’ he said ardently, ’take me for your soldier.  I am a bad man, but surely not so bad as this.  Let me fight him for you.’

The Queen shook her head, impatient.  ’Hey!  What can you do against so glorious a man?  He is the greatest in the world.’

‘Ha, domeneddio!’ said the Marquess with a snort.  ’I have that which will abate such glory.  Dearest Madame, we go to pray for your health.’  He kissed her hand, and drew away with him Saint-Pol, who was trembling under the thoughts that fired him.

‘Oh, my soul, Marquess!’ said the youth, when they were in the glare of day again.  ‘What shall we do to mend this wretchedness?’ The Marquess looked shrewdly.

‘End the wretch who wrought it.’

‘Do we go clean to that, Marquess?  Have we no back-thoughts of our own?’

‘The work is clean enough.  You come to-night to the Tower of Flies?’

‘Yes, yes, I will come,’ said Saint-Pol.

‘I shall have one with me,’ the Marquess went on, ’who will be of service, mind you.’

‘Ah,’ said Saint-Pol, ‘and so shall I.’

The Marquess stroked his nose.  ‘Hum,’ he said, advising, ’who might your man be, Saint-Pol?’