“But Fatima, Fatima, how fares she?” Romane continued.  “Since Lammas was a twelvemonth, I hear nought of her; my letters are unanswered.  The postman hath traversed our camp every day, and never brought me a billet.  How is Fatima, Philibert de Coquelicot?”

“She is—­well,” Philibert replied; “her sister Anne is the fairest of the twain, though.”

“Her sister Anne was a baby when I embarked for Egypt.  A plague on sister Anne!  Speak of Fatima, Philibert—­my blue-eyed Fatima!”

“I say she is—­well,” answered his comrade gloomily.

“Is she dead?  Is she ill?  Hath she the measles?  Nay, hath she had the small-pox, and lost her beauty?  Speak; speak, boy!” cried the knight, wrought to agony.

“Her cheek is as red as her mother’s, though the old Countess paints hers every day.  Her foot is as light as a sparrow’s, and her voice as sweet as a minstrel’s dulcimer; but give me nathless the Lady Anne,” cried Philibert; “give me the peerless Lady Anne!  As soon as ever I have won spurs, I will ride all Christendom through, and proclaim her the Queen of Beauty.  Ho, Lady Anne!  Lady Anne!” and so saying—­but evidently wishing to disguise some emotion, or conceal some tale his friend could ill brook to hear—­the reckless damoiseau galloped wildly forward.

But swift as was his courser’s pace, that of his companion’s enormous charger was swifter.  “Boy,” said the elder, “thou hast ill tidings.  I know it by thy glance.  Speak:  shall he who hath bearded grim Death in a thousand fields shame to face truth from a friend?  Speak, in the name of heaven and good Saint Botibol.  Romane de Clos-Vougeot will bear your tidings like a man!”

“Fatima is well,” answered Philibert once again; “she hath had no measles:  she lives and is still fair.”

“Fair, ay, peerless fair; but what more, Philibert?  Not false?  By Saint Botibol, say not false,” groaned the elder warrior.

“A month syne,” Philibert replied, “she married the Baron de Barbazure.”

With that scream which is so terrible in a strong man in agony, the brave knight Romane de Clos-Vougeot sank back at the words, and fell from his charger to the ground, a lifeless mass of steel.

II.

Like many another fabric of feudal war and splendor, the once vast and magnificent Castle of Barbazure is now a moss-grown ruin.  The traveller of the present day, who wanders by the banks of the silvery Loire, and climbs the steep on which the magnificent edifice stood, can scarcely trace, among the shattered masses of ivy-covered masonry which lie among the lonely crags, even the skeleton of the proud and majestic palace stronghold of the Barons of Barbazure.