On arriving at the palace of the Countess of Forli, Gervaise was surprised at the change that had taken place in the Lady Claudia.  From what Caretto had said, he was prepared to find that she had grown out of her girlhood, and had altered much.  She had, however, changed even more than he had expected, and had become, he thought, the fairest woman that he had ever seen.  The countess greeted him with great cordiality; but Claudia came forward with a timidity that contrasted strangely with the outspoken frankness he remembered in the girl.  For a time they all chatted together of the events of the siege, and of his captivity.

“The news that you had been captured threw quite a gloom over us, Sir Gervaise,” the countess said.  “We at first consoled ourselves with the thought that you would speedily be ransomed; but when months passed by, and we heard that all the efforts of the grand master had failed to discover where you had been taken, I should have lost all hope had it not been that my cousin had returned after an even longer captivity among the Moors.  I am glad to hear that you did not suffer so many hardships as he did.”

“I am in no way to be pitied, Countess,” Gervaise said lightly.  “I had a kind master for some months, and was treated as a friend rather than as a slave; afterwards, I had the good fortune to be made the head of the labourers at the buildings in the sultan’s palace, and although I certainly worked with them, the labour was not greater than one could perform without distress, and I had naught to complain of as to my condition.”

After talking for upwards of an hour, the countess told Caretto that she had several matters on which she needed his counsel, and retired with him to the next room of the suite opening from the apartment in which they had been sitting.  For a minute or two the others sat silent, and then Claudia said,

“You have changed much since I saw you last, Sir Gervaise.  Then it seemed to me scarcely possible that you could have performed the feat of destroying the corsair fleet; now it is not so difficult to understand.”

“I have widened out a bit, Lady Claudia.  My moustache is really a moustache, and not a pretence at one; otherwise I don’t feel that I have changed.  The alteration in yourself is infinitely greater.”

“I, too, have filled out,” she said, with a smile.  “I was a thin girl then —­ all corners and angles.  No, I don’ t want any compliments, of which, to tell you the truth, I am heartily sick.  And so,” she went on in a softer tone, “you have actually brought my gage home!  Oh, Sir Gervaise,” —­ and her eyes filled with tears —­ “my cousin has told me!  How could you have been so foolish as to remain voluntarily in captivity, that you might recover the gage a child had given you?”

“Not a child, Lady Claudia.  A girl not yet a woman, I admit; yet it was not given in the spirit of a young girl, but in that of an earnest woman.  I had taken a vow never to part with it, as you had pledged yourself to bestow no similar favour upon any other knight.  I was confident that you would keep your vow; and although in any case, as a true knight, I was bound to preserve your gift, still more so was I bound by the thought of the manner in which you had presented it to me.”