“Dick!” cried Lys.

“All right,” said I.  “Shall I read about the Sieur de Trevec who rode to Saladin’s tent alone to seek for medicine for St. Louise?  Or shall I read about—­what is it?  Oh, here it is, all down in black and white—­about the Marquis de Trevec who drowned himself before Alva’s eyes rather than surrender the banner of the fleur-de-lis to Spain?  It’s all written here.  But, dear, how about that soldier named Trevec who was killed in the old fort on the cliff yonder?”

“He dropped the de, and the Trevecs since then have been Republicans,” said Lys—­“all except me.”

“That’s quite right,” said I; “it is time that we Republicans should agree upon some feudal system.  My dear, I drink to the king!” and I raised my wine glass and looked at Lys.

“To the king,” said Lys, flushing.  She smoothed out the tiny garment on her knees; she touched the glass with her lips; her eyes were very sweet.  I drained the glass to the king.

After a silence I said:  “I will tell the king stories.  His majesty shall be amused.”

“His majesty,” repeated Lys softly.

“Or hers,” I laughed.  “Who knows?”

“Who knows?” murmured Lys; with a gentle sigh.

“I know some stories about Jack the Giant-Killer,” I announced.  “Do you, Lys?”

“I?  No, not about a giant-killer, but I know all about the werewolf, and Jeanne-la-Flamme, and the Man in Purple Tatters, and—­O dear me, I know lots more.”

“You are very wise,” said I.  “I shall teach his majesty, English.”

“And I Breton,” cried Lys jealously.

“I shall bring playthings to the king,” said I—­“big green lizards from the gorse, little gray mullets to swim in glass globes, baby rabbits from the forest of Kerselec——­”

“And I,” said Lys, “will bring the first primrose, the first branch of aubepine, the first jonquil, to the king—­my king.”

“Our king,” said I; and there was peace in Finistere.

I lay back, idly turning the leaves of the curious old volume.

“I am looking,” said I, “for the crest.”

“The crest, dear?  It is a priest’s head with an arrow-shaped mark on the forehead, on a field——­”

I sat up and stared at my wife.

“Dick, whatever is the matter?” she smiled.  “The story is there in that book.  Do you care to read it?  No?  Shall I tell it to you?  Well, then:  It happened in the third crusade.  There was a monk whom men called the Black Priest.  He turned apostate, and sold himself to the enemies of Christ.  A Sieur de Trevec burst into the Saracen camp, at the head of only one hundred lances, and carried the Black Priest away out of the very midst of their army.”

“So that is how you come by the crest,” I said quietly; but I thought of the branded skull in the gravel pit, and wondered.

“Yes,” said Lys.  “The Sieur de Trevec cut the Black Priest’s head off, but first he branded him with an arrow mark on the forehead.  The book says it was a pious action, and the Sieur de Trevec got great merit by it.  But I think it was cruel, the branding,” she sighed.