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And the Princess Joceliande laughed, and replaced the scissors in her girdle. “I did but make pretence, to try you,” she said, “for, in truth, I had begun to think you were some holy angel and no woman, so little share had you in a woman’s vanities. But ’tis all unbound, and I wonder not that it hinders you. Let me bind it up!”

And while the princess bound the hair cunningly in a coronal upon her head, Solita spake again hesitatingly, seeking to conceal her craft.

“Madame, it is easy for you to bind my hair, but for myself, I have no mirror and so dress it awkwardly.”

Joceliande laughed again merrily at the words. “Dear heart!” she cried. “What man is it? Hast discovered thou art a woman after all? First thou fearest for thy hair, and now thou askest a mirror. But in truth I like thee the better for thy discovery.” And she kissed Solita very heartily, who blushed that her secret was so readily found out, and felt no small shame at her lack of subtlety. For many ladies, she knew, had secrets–ay, even from their bosom lords and masters—and kept them without effort in the subterfuge, whereas she, poor fool, betrayed hers at the first word.

“And what man is it?” laughed the princess. “For there is not one that deserves thee, as thou shalt judge for thyself.” Whereupon she summoned one of her servants and bade him place a mirror in the bed-chamber of Solita, wherein she might see herself from top to toe.

“Art content?” she asked. “Thus shalt thou see thyself, without blemish or fault even for this crown of hair to the heel of thy foot. But I fear me the sight will change all thy thoughts and incline thee to scorn of thy suitor.”

Then she stood for a little watching the sunlight play upon the golden head and pry into the soft shadows of the curls, and her face saddened and her voice faltered.

“But what of me, Solita?” she said. “All men give me reverence, not one knows me for a woman. I crave the bread of love, all day long I hunger for it, but they offer me the polished stones of courtesy and respect, and so I starve slowly to my death. What of me, Solita? What of me?”

But Solita made reply, soothing her:

“Madame,” she said, “all your servants love you, but it beseems them not to flaunt it before your face, so high are you placed above them. You order their fortunes and their lives, and surely ’tis nobler work than meddling with this idle love-prattle.”

“Nay,” replied the princess, laughing in despite of her heaviness, for she noted how the blush on Solita’s cheek belied the scorn of her tongue. “There spoke the saint, and I will hear no more from her now that I have found the woman. Tell me, did he kiss you?”

And Solita blushed yet more deeply, so that even her neck down to her shoulders grew rosy, and once or twice she nodded her head, for her lips would not speak the word.

Then Joceliande sighed to herself and said–

“And yet, perchance, he would not die for you, whereas men die for me daily, and from mere obedience. How is he called?”

“Madame,” she replied, “I may not tell you, for all my pride in him. ‘Twill be for my lord to answer you in his good time. But that he would die for me, if need there were, I have no doubt. For I have looked into his eyes and read his soul.”

So she spake with much spirit, upholding Sieur Rudel; but Joceliande was sorely grieved for that Solita would not trust her with her lover’s name, and answered bitterly:

“And his soul which you did see was doubtless your own image. And thus it will be with the next maiden who looks into his eyes. Her own image will she see, and she will go away calling it his soul, and not knowing, poor fool, that it has already faded from his eyes.”