birds—­showed a proud front of sufferance, while inly her heart played a wild tune.  Not a crying girl, nor one capable of any easy utterance, she could do no more than stand still, and wonder why she was most glad when most wretched.  She ought to have felt the taint, to love the man who had slain her brother; she might have known despair:  she did neither.  She sat or stood, or lay in her bed, and pressed to her heart with both hands the words that said, ‘Never doubt me, Jehane,’ or ’Ma mye, I shall come to you.’  When he came, as he surely would, he would find her a wife—­ah, let him come, let him come in his time, so only she saw him again!

March went out in dusty squalls, and April came in to the sound of the young lamb’s bleat.  Willow-palm was golden in the hedges when the King of England’s men filled Normandy, and Gilles de Gurdun, having been healed of his wounds, rode towards Rouen at the head of his levy.  He went not without an understanding with Saint-Pol that he should have his sister on Palm Sunday in the church of Gisors.  They could not marry at Saint-Pol-la-Marche, because Gilles was on his service and might not win so far; nor could they have married before he went, because of his ill-treatment at the hands of the Bearnais.  Of this Gilles had made light.  ‘He got worse than he gave,’ he told Saint-Pol.  ’I left him dead in the wood.’

‘Would you see Jehane, Gilles?’ Saint-Pol had asked him before he went out.  ‘She is in her turret as meek as a mouse.’

‘Time enough for that,’ said Gilles quietly.  ’She loves me not.  But I, Eustace, love her so hot that I have fear of myself.  I think I will not see her.’

‘As you will,’ said Saint-Pol.  ‘Farewell.’

In Gisors, then a walled town, trembling like a captive at the knees of a huge castle, there was a long grey church which called Saint Sulpice lord.  It stood in a little square midway between the South Gate and the citadel, a narrow oblong place where they held the cattle market on Tuesdays, flagged and planted with pollard-limes.  The west door of Saint Sulpice, resting on a stepped foundation, formed a solemn end to this humble space, and the great gable flanked by turrets threatened the huddled tenements of the craftsmen.  On this morning of Palm Sunday the shaven crowns of the limes were budded gold and pink, the sky a fair sea-blue over Gisors, with a scurrying fleece of clouds like foam; the poplars about the meadows were in their first flush, all the quicksets veiled in green.  The town was early afoot, for the wedding party of the Sieur de Gurdun was to come in; and Gurdun belonged to the Archbishop, and the Archbishop to the Duke.  The bride also was reported unwilling, which added zest to the public appetite for her known beauty.  Some knew for truth that she was the cast-off mistress of a very great man, driven into Gurdun’s arms to dispose of scandal and of her.  ‘Eh, the minion!’ said certain sniggering old women to whom this was told, ’she’ll not find so soft a lap at Gurdun!’ But others said, ’Gurdun is the Duke’s, and will one day be the Duke’s son’s.  What will Sieur Gilles do then with his straining wife?  You cannot keep your hawk on the cadge for ever—­ah, nor hood her for ever!’ And so on.