Here she ceased to speak very gravely, as she had till now done, and breaking out into a sweet laughter, she cried—­

“Nevertheless I am not wholly a false prophetess, for to-day you go with them southward, to Tours, to change the air, as the physician counsels, and so now we part.  O false Scot!” she said, laughing again, “how have you the ill courtesy to look so joyous?  Nay, I shall change your cheer”; and with that she stooped and kissed my cheek, saying, “Go, and joy go with you, as joy abides with me, to see my sick man look so strong again.  Come, they are waiting for us, and you know we must not tarry.”

Then, giving me her arm, she led me in, and if one of us twain had a shamefaced guise, verify it was not Charlotte Boucher.

“I yield you back your esquire, fair lady,” she said merrily, making obeisance to Elliot, who stood up, very pale, to receive us.

“He has got no ill in the bower of the enchantress,” said my master; whereat, Elliot seeming some deal confused, and blushing, Charlotte bustled about, bringing wine and meat, and waiting upon all of us, and on her father and mother at table.  A merry dinner it was among the elder folk, but Elliot and I were somewhat silent, and a great joy it was to me, and a heavy weight off my heart, I do confess, when, dinner being ended, and all courtesies done and said, my raiment was encased in wallets, and we all went through the garden, to Loire side; and so, with many farewells, took boat and sailed down the river, under the Bridge of Orleans, towards Blois.  But Charlotte I never saw again, nor did I ever speak of her to Elliot, nor Elliot of her to me, from that day forth.

But within short space came tidings, how that Charlotte was wedding a young burgess of Orleans, with whom, as I hear, she dwelt happily, and still, for all I know, dwells in peace.  As I deem, she kept her lord in a merry life, yet in great order and obedience.  So now there is no more to tell of her, save that her picture comes back before me—­a tall, brown girl, with black hair and eyes like the hue of hazel boughs glassed in running water, clad in white and green and red, standing smiling beneath the red-and-white blossoms of an apple-tree, in the green garden of Jacques Boucher.

Elliot was silent enough, and sat telling her beads, in the beginning of our journey down the water-way, that is the smoothest and the easiest voyaging for a sick man.  She was in the stern of the boat, her fingers, when her beads were told, trailing in the smooth water, that was green with the shade of leaves.  But her father stood by me, asking many questions concerning the siege, and gaping at the half-mended arch of the bridge, where through we sailed, and at the blackened walls of Les Tourelles, and all the ruin that war had wrought.  But now masons and carpenters were very busy rebuilding all, and the air was full of the tinkling of trowels and hammers.  Presently we passed the place where I had drawn Brother