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“Softly,” he said through his beard. “No harsh words. Send the child in first.”

So Philip went ponderously away and left Charles to cool his heels and wait. As he stood there sheepishly he remembered many things with shame. Joan, and the violence of the last months, and the Bishop’s averted head. For now he knew one thing, and knew it well. The lady of his heart lay in that quiet room beyond; and the devils that had fought in him were dead of a Christmas peace.

Little cries came to him, Clotilde’s soft weeping, and another voice that thrilled him, filled with the wooing note that is in a mother’s voice when she speaks to her child. But it was a feeble voice, and its weakness struck terror to his soul. What was this thing for which he had cast her away, now that he might lose her? His world shook under his feet. His cousin and enemy was, willy-nilly, become his friend. His world, which he had thought was his own domain, as far from his castle as the eye could reach and as far again, was in an upper room of Philip’s house, and dying, perhaps.

But she was not dying. They admitted him in time to save his pride, for he was close to distraction. And, being admitted, he saw only the woman he had put away.

He went straight to his wife’s bed and dropped on his knees beside it. Not for his life could he have spoken then. Inarticulate things were in his mind, remorse and the loneliness of the last months, and the shame of the girl Joan.

He caught her hand to him and covered it with kisses.

“I have tried to live without you,” he said, “and death itself were better.”

When she did not reply, but lay back, white to the lips, he rose and looked down at her.

“I can see,” he said, “that my touch is bitterness. I have merited nothing better. So I shall go again, but this time, if it will comfort you, I shall give you the child Clotilde–not that I love her the less, but that you deserve her the more.”

Then she opened her eyes, and what he saw there brought him back to his knees with a cry.

“I want only your love, my lord, to make me happy,” she said. “And now, see how the birthday of our Lord has brought us peace.” She drew down the covering a trifle, close to his bent head, and showed the warm curve of her arm. “Unto us also is born a son, Charles.”

“I have wanted a son,” said Charles the Fair, “but more than a son have I wanted you, heart of my heart.”

* * * * *

Outside in the courtyard the Fool had drawn a circle about him.

“I am adventuring,” he said. “Yesterday I caught this horse when the others ran from him. Then I saved a lady and brought her to her destination. This being the Christmas season and a Sunday, I shall rest here for a day.” He threw out his chest magnificently. “But tomorrow I continue on my way.”

“Can you fight?” They baited him.

“I can sing,” he replied. And he threw back his head with its wandering eyes and tender mouth and sang:

“The Light of Light Divine,
True Brightness undefiled.
He bears for us the shame of sin,
A holy, spotless Child.”