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“Here Death is;–and no Heracles may bring
Alcestis hence, nor here may Roland see
The eyes of Aude, nor here the wakening spring
Vex any man with memory, for there be
No memories that cling as cerements cling,
No Love that baffles Death, more strong than he.

“Us hath he noted, and for us hath he
An how appointed, and that hour will bring
Oblivion.–Then, laugh! Laugh, love, and see
The tyrant mocked, what time our bosoms cling,
What time our lips are red, what time we be
Exultant in our little hour of spring!

“Thus in the spring we mock at Death, though he
Will see our children perish and will bring
Asunder all that cling while love may be.”

Then Osmund put the viol aside and sat quite silent. The soldiery judged, and with cordial frankness stated, that the difficulty of his rhyming scheme did not atone for his lack of indecency, but when the Queen of England went among them with Messire Heleigh’s hat she found them liberal. Even the fellow with the broken head admitted that a bargain was proverbially a bargain, and returned the locket with the addition of a coin. So for the present these two went safe, and quitted the Cat and Hautbois both fed and unmolested.

“My Osmund,” Dame Alianora said, presently, “your memory is better than I had thought.”

“I remembered a boy and a girl,” he returned. “And I grieved that they were dead.”

Afterward they plodded on toward Bowater, and the ensuing night rested in Chantrell Wood. They had the good-fortune there to encounter dry and windless weather and a sufficiency of brushwood, with which Osmund constructed an agreeable fire. In its glow these two sat, eating bread and cheese.

But talk languished at the outset. The Queen had complained of an ague, and Messire Heleigh was sedately suggesting three spiders hung about the neck as an infallible corrective for this ailment, when Dame Alianora rose to her feet.

“Eh, my God!” she said; “I am wearied of such ungracious aid! Not an inch of the way but you have been thinking of your filthy books and longing to be back at them! No; I except the moments when you were frightened into forgetfulness–first by Falmouth, then by the trooper. O Eternal Father! fraid of a single dirty soldier!”

“Indeed, I was very much afraid,” said Messire Heleigh, with perfect simplicity; “timidus perire, madame.”

“You have not even the grace to be ashamed! Yet I am shamed, messire, that Osmund Heleigh should have become the book-muddled pedant you are. For I loved him–do you understand?–I loved young Osmund Heleigh.”

He also had risen in the firelight, and now its convulsive shadows marred two dogged faces. “I think it best not to recall that boy and girl who are so long dead. And, frankly, madame and Queen, the merit of the business I have in hand is questionable. It is you who have set all England by the ears, and I am guiding you toward opportunities for further mischief. I must serve you. Understand, madame, that ancient folly in Provence yonder has nothing to do with the affair. Remember that I cry nihil ad Andromachen! I must serve you because you are a woman and helpless; yet I cannot forget that he who spares the wolf is the sheep’s murderer. It would be better for all England if you were dead. Hey, your gorgeous follies, madame! Silver peacocks set with sapphires! Cloth of fine gold–“

“Would you have me go unclothed?” Dame Alianora demanded, pettishly.

“Not so,” Osmund retorted; “again I say to you with Tertullian, ‘Let women paint their eyes with the tints of chastity, insert into their ears the Word of God, tie the yoke of Christ about their necks, and adorn their whole person with the silk of sanctity and the damask of devotion.’ And I say to you–“