While the grand seneschal was giving orders for supper and the preparation of a room for Andre and his wife, the prince, who during the whole day had abandoned himself entirely to his favourite amusement, went up on the terrace to enjoy the evening air, accompanied by the good Isolda, his beloved nurse, who loved him more even than his mother, and would not leave his side for a moment.  Never had the prince appeared so animated and happy:  he was in ecstasies over the beauty of the country, the clear air, the scent of the trees around; he besieged his nurse with a thousand queries, never waiting for an answer; and they were indeed long in coming, for poor Isolda was gazing upon him with that appearance of fascination which makes a mother absent-minded when her child is talking:  Andre was eagerly telling her about a terrible boar he had chased that morning across the woods, how it had lain foaming at his feet, and Isolda interrupted him to say he had a grain of dust in his eye.  Then Andre was full of his plans for the future, and Isolda stroked his fair hair, remarking that he must be feeling very tired.  Then, heeding nothing but his own joy and excitement, the young prince hurled defiance at destiny, calling by all his gods on dangers to come forward, so that he might have the chance of quelling them, and the poor nurse exclaimed, in a flood of tears, “My child, you love me no longer.”

Out of all patience with these constant interruptions, Andre scolded her kindly enough, and mocked at her childish fears.  Then, paying no attention to a sort of melancholy that was coming over him, he bade her tell him old tales of his childhood, and had a long talk about his brother Louis, his absent mother, and tears were in his eyes when he recalled her last farewell.  Isolda listened joyfully, and answered all he asked; but no fell presentiment shook her heart:  the poor woman loved Andre with all the strength of her soul; for him she would have given up her life in this world and in the world to come; yet she was not his mother.

When all was ready, Robert of Cabane came to tell the prince that the queen awaited him; Andre cast one last look at the smiling fields beneath the starry heavens, pressed his nurse’s hand to his lips and to his heart, and followed the grand seneschal slowly and, it seemed, with some regret.  But soon the brilliant lights of the room, the wine that circulated freely, the gay talk, the eager recitals of that day’s exploits served to disperse the cloud of gloom that had for a moment overspread the countenance of the prince.  The queen alone, leaning on the table with fixed eyes and lips that never moved, sat at this strange feast pale and cold as a baleful ghost summoned from the tomb to disturb the joy of the party.  Andre, whose brain began to be affected by the draughts of wine from Capri and Syracuse, was annoyed at his wife’s look, and attributing it to contempt, filled a goblet to the brim and presented