The blushing Isabella was conducted to the royal presence, where the king was graciously pleased to impress a salute on her rich and glowing cheek—­no mean honour from so gracious and gallant a monarch, who, though old, was yet accounted a mighty adept in the discernment of female beauty, he never being known to suffer contact of the royal lip with aught but the fairest and most comely of the sex.

“Sir John, I commend thee to thy mistress.  A dainty choice.  She is ’The Queen of Beauty’ for the day, and to-night we command your presence at the banquet.”

“My gracious liege,” said Isabella, pointing to Oskatell, “I have a brother; unto his care it is but meet that I entrust myself; and he”——­

“His person and endowments,” interrupted the king, “are not unknown to us.  I do honour thee by ennobling him; for though our ladies’ brightness be all too dazzling to receive a glory from us, yet peradventure for their sakes our courtesy is vouchsafed.  Rise, Sir Oskatell de Lathom.”

Again a flourish of trumpets proclaimed the king’s favour, who with many more gracious speeches won the affection of all who heard him that day.

Several other jousts and “gentle passages” were held, the success of which falling principally with the English combatants, the boasting pride of France was again humbled before the king, who seemed to renew his former victories at this memorable “Tourney of Winchester.”

But Isabella had bartered years of repose for this brief season of intoxicating splendour.  The barbed arrow was in her heart, and the more she struggled, the more irreclaimable it grew.  Doubtless that unlucky dream had rendered her more susceptible to the wound.

Dreams have this operation; and whether good or evil, they leave an impression that no simple act of the will can efface.  It seems to be the work of a power superior to our own, for “the less begetteth not the greater;” how, then, can the mind originate a train of conceptions, or rather creations, superior to itself—­above its own power to control?

But Isabella was too much engrossed by her feelings to attempt their solution.  She lay restless on her couch, but there was no escape.  An unquenchable flame was kindled in her soul, that not all the cool appliances of reason could subdue.  Tomorrow she must depart, and that gay pageant vanish as a dream; and yet not like her own dream, for that was abiding and indelible.  To-morrow the brave knight must withdraw, and the “Queen of Beauty,” homaged for a day, give place to another whose reign should be as brief and as unenduring.  In this distempered mood, with a heart all moved to sadness, did the Lady Isabel pass the first hours of the following night.