“Who may that proud damsel be, and what ails her at my roses?” quoth Charlotte, sitting herself down again and still following them with her eyes.  “Methinks I have seen her face before; and what ails you?” she asked, looking earnestly on me, “for you are as white as the last snow ere it melts in spring.”

I had good reason to be pale, for I very well guessed that Elliot, having ridden in the Maiden’s company to see me, and to surprise me with the unlooked-for gladness of her coming, had marked Charlotte as she so innocently leaned on me and laughed to me, and had conceived anger against us both, for of a truth Charlotte was very fair and of a joyous aspect.  Yet, taken so suddenly as I was, between the extreme of delight in looking on my lady beyond hope, and the very deep of sorrow that she had so bitterly slighted me, I was yet wary of betraying myself.  For the girl beside me had, in all honest and maidenly service that woman may do for man, been kinder to me than a sister, and no thought or word of earthly love had ever passed between us.  That she should wot of Elliot’s anger, and of its cause, and so hold my lady lightly, ay, and triumph over her in her heart (as is the nature of a woman, her ministry being thus churlishly repaid), was more than I could endure.  So, may the saints forgive me!  I lied, and it is a strange thing, but true, that howsoever a gentleman may hate the very thought of a lie, yet often he finds it hard to tell the truth to a woman.

“Do I look white?” I said.  “Then it is because I have a sudden pang of sorrow.  For one moment I deemed that proud damsel was the lady of my love, whom, in verity, she most strangely favours, so that you might think them sisters.  But alas! she is but the daughter of a good Scots knight at Chinon, whom I have seen there before to-day, and marvelled how much she and my lady favour each other.  Therefore am I pale, because that hope of mine is broken.  And you know her face, belike, from my poor picture of my lady.”

Charlotte looked at me steadily, and flushed red; but even then, one who rode by among the men-at-arms noted me, and, waving his arm towards me, cried in a loud voice—­

“Hail, fair son, soon will I be with thee!” and so, turning in his saddle to watch me, he laughed a loud laugh and rode onwards.  He was my master, and as my eyes followed him, Charlotte spoke.

“And who is that great Scot, with his Scots twang of the tongue, who called you ‘son’?  By the Mass, she was your lady, and yonder wight is her father, of whom you have spoken to me more than once”; for, indeed, I had told her all the story of my loves.

Then I was confused, for I could no longer deny the truth, and not having one word to say, I sighed from my heart.