They rose up early to a fair dawn.  The cloud-wrack was blown off, leaving the sky a lake of burnt yellow, pure, sweet, and cool.  Thus the world entered upon the summer of Saint Luke, to a new-risen sun, to thin mists stealing off the moor, to wet flowers hearted anew, to blue air, and hope left for those who would go gleaning.  While Eustace Saint-Pol was snoring abed and the Abbot Milo at his Sursum Corda, Richard had Jehane by the hand.  ’Come forth, my love; we have the broad day before us and an empty kingdom to roam in.  Come, my red rose, let me set you among the flowers.’  What could she do but harbour up her thoughts?

He took her afield, where flowers made the earth still a singing-place, and gathered of these to deck her bosom and hair.  Of the harebells he made knots, the ground-colour of her eyes; but autumn loves the yellow, so she was stuck with gold like a princess.  She sat enthroned by his command, this young girl in a high place, with downcast eyes and a face all fire-colour, while he worshipped her to his fancy.  I believe he had no after-thought; but she saw the dun smoke of the fires at Louviers, and knew they would make the night shudder again.  Yet her sweetness, patience, staid courtesy, humility, never failed her; out of the deep wells of her soul she drew them forth in a stream.  Richard adored.  ‘Queen Jehane, Queen Jehane!’ he cried out, with his arms straightly round her—­’Was ever man in the world blest so high since God said, “Behold thy mother”?  And so art thou mother to me, O bride.  Bride and queen as thou shalt be.’

This was great invention.  She put her hand upon his head.  ’My Richard, my Richard Yea-and-Nay,’ she said, as if pitying his wild heart.  The nickname jarred.

‘Never call me that,’ he told her.  ’Leave that to Bertran de Born, a fool’s word to the fool who made it.’

‘If I could, if I could!’ thought Jehane, and sighed.  There were tears in her eyes, also, as she remembered what generosity in him must be frozen up, and what glory of her own.  But she did not falter in what she had to do, while he, too exalted to be pitied, began to sing a Southern song—­

     Al’ entrada del tems clair, eya!

When their hair commingled in their love, when they were close together, there was little distinguishing between them; he was more her pair than Eustace her blood-brother, in stature and shape, in hue and tincture of gold.  Jehane you know, but not Richard.  Of him, son of a king, heir of a king, if you wish some bodily sign, I will say shortly that he was a very tall young man, high-coloured and calm in the face, straight-nosed, blue-eyed, spare of flesh, lithe, swift in movement.  He was at once bold and sleek, eager and cold as ice—­an odd combination, but not more odd than the blend of Norman dog and Angevin cat which had made him so.  Furtive he was not, yet seeming to crouch for a spring; not savage, yet primed for savagery; not cruel, yet quick on the