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“O Love, that art stronger than we,
Albeit not lightly stilled,
Thou art less cruel than she.”

Malise came hastily into the room, and, without speaking, laid a fox-brush before the Princess.

Katharine twirled it in her hand, staring at the card-littered table. “So you are in his pay, Malise? I am sorry. But you know that your employer is master here. Who am I to forbid him entrance?” The girl went away silently, abashed, and the Princess sat quite still, tapping the brush against the table.

“They do not want me to sign another treaty, do they?” her father asked timidly. “It appears to me they are always signing treaties, and I cannot see that any good comes of it. And I would have won the last game, Katharine, if Malise had not interrupted us. You know I would have won.”

“Yes, father, you would have won. Oh, he must not see you!” Katharine cried, a great tide of love mounting in her breast, the love that draws a mother fiercely to shield her backward boy. “Father, will you not go into your chamber? I have a new book for you, father–all pictures, dear. Come–” She was coaxing him when Henry appeared in the doorway.

“But I do not wish to look at pictures,” Charles said, peevishly; “I wish to play cards. You are an ungrateful daughter, Katharine. You are never willing to amuse me.” He sat down with a whimper and began to pinch at his dribbling lips.

Katharine had moved a little toward the door. Her face was white. “Now welcome, sire!” she said. “Welcome, O great conqueror, who in your hour of triumph can find no nobler recreation than to shame a maid with her past folly! It was valorously done, sire. See, father; here is the King of England come to observe how low we sit that yesterday were lords of France.”

“The King of England!” echoed Charles, and rose now to his feet. “I thought we were at war with him. But my memory is treacherous. You perceive, brother of England, I am planning a new mouse-trap, and my mind is somewhat preempted. I recall now you are in treaty for my daughter’s hand. Katharine is a good girl, messire, but I suppose–” He paused, as if to regard and hear some insensible counsellor, and then briskly resumed: “Yes, I suppose policy demands that she should marry you. We trammelled kings can never go free of policy–ey, my compere of England? No; it was through policy I wedded her mother; and we have been very unhappy, Isabeau and I. A word in your ear, son-in-law: Madame Isabeau’s soul formerly inhabited a sow, as Pythagoras teaches, and when our Saviour cast it out at Gadara, the influence of the moon drew it hither.”

Henry did not say anything. Always his calm blue eyes appraised Dame Katharine.

“Oho, these Latinists cannot hoodwink me, you observe, though by ordinary it chimes with my humor to appear content. Policy again, messire: for once roused, I am terrible. To-day in the great hall-window, under the bleeding feet of Lazarus, I slew ten flies–very black they were, the black shrivelled souls of parricides–and afterward I wept for it. I often weep; the Mediterranean hath its sources in my eyes, for my daughter cheats at cards. Cheats, sir!–and I her father!” The incessant peering, the stealthy cunning with which Charles whispered this, the confidence with which he clung to his destroyer’s hand, was that of a conspiring child.

“Come, father,” Katharine said. “Come away to bed, dear.”

“Hideous basilisk!” he spat at her; “dare you rebel against me? Am I not King of France, and is it not blasphemy a King of France should be thus mocked? Frail moths that flutter about my splendor.” He shrieked, in an unheralded frenzy, “beware of me, beware! for I am omnipotent! I am King of France, God’s regent. At my command the winds go about the earth, and nightly the stars are kindled for my recreation. Perhaps I am mightier than God, but I do not remember now. The reason is written down and lies somewhere under a bench. Now I sail for England. Eia! eia! I go to ravage England, terrible and merciless. But I must have my mouse-traps, Goodman Devil, for in England the cats o’ the middle-sea wait unfed.” He went out of the room, giggling, and in the corridor began to sing: