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The same night Miguel de Rueda sobbed through the prayer which Saint Theophilus made long ago to the Mother of God:

“Dame, je n’ose,
Flors d’aiglentier et lis et rose,
En qui li filz Diex se repose,”

and so on. Or, in other wording: “Hearken, O gracious Lady! thou that art more fair than any flower of the eglantine, more comely than the blossoming of the rose or of the lily! thou to whom was confided the very Son of God! Hearken, for I am afraid! afford counsel to me that am ensnared by Satan and know not what to do! Never will I make an end of praying. O Virgin debonnaire! O honored Lady! Thou that wast once a woman–!”

You would have said the boy was dying; and in sober verity a deal of Miguel de Rueda died upon this night of clearer vision.

Yet he sang the next day as these two rode southward, although half as in defiance.

Sang Miguel:

“And still, whate’er the years may send–
Though Time be proven a fickle friend,
And Love be shown a liar–
I must adore until the end
That primal heart’s desire.

“I may not ‘hear men speak of her
Unmoved, and vagrant pulses stir
Whene’er she passes by,
And I again her worshipper
Must serve her till I die.

“Not she that is doth pass, but she
That Time hath riven away from me
And in the darkness set–
The maid that I may never see,
Or gain, or e’er forget.”

It was on the following day, near Bazas, these two encountered Adam de Gourdon, a Provencal knight, with whom the Prince fought for a long while, without either contestant giving way; and in consequence a rendezvous was fixed for the November of that year, and afterward the Prince and de Gourdon parted, highly pleased with each other.

Thus the Prince and his attendant came, in late September, to Mauleon, on the Castilian frontier, and dined there at the Fir Cone. Three or four lackeys were about–some exalted person’s retinue? Prince Edward hazarded to the swart little landlord as the Prince and Miguel lingered over the remnants of their meal.

Yes, the fellow informed them: the Prince de Gatinais had lodged there for a whole week, watching the north road, as circumspect of all passage as a cat over a mouse-hole. Eh, monseigneur expected some one, doubtless–a lady, it might be–the gentlefolk had their escapades like every one else. The innkeeper babbled vaguely, for on a sudden he was very much afraid of his gigantic patron.

“You will show me to his room,” Prince Edward said, with a politeness that was ingratiating.

The host shuddered and obeyed.

Miguel de Rueda, left alone, sat quite silent, his fingertips drumming upon the table. He rose suddenly and flung back his shoulders, all resolution to the tiny heels. On the stairway he passed the black little landlord.

“I think,” the little landlord considered, “that Saint Michael must have been of similar appearance when he went to meet the Evil One. Ho, messire, will there be bloodshed?”

But Miguel de Rueda had passed to the room above. The door was ajar. He paused there.

De Gatinais had risen from his dinner and stood facing the door. He, too, was a blond man and the comeliest of his day. And at sight of him awoke in the woman’s heart all of the old tenderness; handsome and brave and witty she knew him to be, past reason, as indeed the whole world knew him to be distinguished by every namable grace; and the innate weakness of de Gatinais, which she alone suspected, made him now seem doubly dear. Fiercely she wanted to shield him, less from carnal injury than from that self-degradation she cloudily apprehended to be at hand; the test was come, and Etienne would fail. Thus much she knew with a sick, illimitable surety, and she loved de Gatinais with a passion which dwarfed comprehension.