“Precisely as I had supposed.  A case for one of our superior wax images, made to model, with pins complete.  Melted before a slow fire ensures the gradual wasting of the original with pangs corresponding to the insertion of each pin.”

The customer’s fine eyes gleamed.  “Give me one.”

“I will sell you one,” corrected the witch.  “But I should warn you.  They are not cheap.”

“No matter.”

“Good.  I was about to observe that since our sovereign liege KING RICHARD granted peace to the Saracen the cost both of material and labour hath so parlously risen that I am unable to supply a really reliable article under fifty golden angels.”

“I have them here.”

“With special pins, of course, extra.”

“Take what you will.”  The maiden flung down a leathern wallet that chinked pleasingly.  The witch, having transferred the contents of this to her own pocket, proceeded to fashion the required charm, watched by her client with half-repelled eagerness.

“Hawk’s eye, falcon’s nose, raven’s lock, peacock’s clothes,” chanted the crone, following the words with her cunning fingers.

“How—­how know you him?” Panic was in the voice.

The other laughed unpleasantly.  “Doth not the whole district know the Lord Oeil-de-Veau by reputation?” She held out the image.  “Handle him carefully and use a fresh pin for each record.”

The maid snatched it from her hands and was turning towards the door of the hut when a low tap on its outer surface caused her to shrink back alarmed.  The witch had again been watching her with an ambiguous smile.  “Should Moddam wish to avoid observation,” she suggested, “the side exit behind yonder curtain—­” In an instant she was alone.  Flinging the empty wallet into the darkest corner the witch (not without sundry chuckles) slowly unbarred the entrance.

On the threshold stood a slim female figure enveloped in a cloak.  “The love potion I had here last week,” began a timid voice, “seems hardly satisfactory.  If you stock a stronger quality, no matter how expensive—­”

“Step inside,” said the witch.

* * * * *

Some couple of months later the ladies of the house-party assembled at Sangazure Castle for the Victory jousts were gathered in the great hall, exchanging gossip and serf-stories in the firelight while awaiting the return of their menkind.

“Hath any heard,” lisped one fair young thing, “how fareth the Lord Oeil-de-Veau?  They tell me that some mysterious ailment hath him in thrall.”

At the words the Lady Yolande Sangazure (whom we have met before) was aware of a crimson flood mounting swiftly to her exquisite temples.  Strange to add, the same phenomenon might have been observed in a score of damosels belonging to the best families in the district.  The hall seemed suffused in a ruddy glow that was certainly not reflected from the exiguous pile of post-Crusading fuel smouldering on the great hearth.