That clear and mild evening, fluted as April by a thrush in the
lilacs, Prosper and the Countess walked together on the terrace. A
guard or two, pike in hand, lounged by the balustrade; the deer-hound,
with his muzzle between his paws, twitched his ears or woke to snap at
a fly: it seemed as if the earth, sure of the sun at last, left her
conning tower with a happy sigh. It turned the Countess to a tender
mood, where she suffered herself to be played upon by the season--
L'ora del tempo e la dolce stagione. The spring whimpered in
her blood. Prosper felt her sighing as she leaned on his arm, and made
stress to amuse her, for sighs always seemed to him unhealthy. He set
himself to be humorous, sang, chattered, told anecdotes, and succeeded
in infecting himself first and the lady afterwards. She laughed in
spite of herself, then with a good will. They both laughed together,
so that the guards nudged each other. One prophesied a match of it.
"And no bad thing for High March if it were so," said the other, "and
we with a man at the top. I never knew a greater-hearted lord. He is
voiced like a peal of bells in a frolic."
"He's a trumpet in a charge home."
"He's first in."
"Fights like a demon."
"Snuffs blood before 'tis out of the skin."
"Ah, a great gentleman!"
"What would his age be?"
"Five-and-twenty, not an ounce more. So ho! What's this on the road?"
The other man looked up, both looked together. The porter came on to
the terrace, followed by a dark youth who walked with a limp.
"A boy to speak with Messire," said the porter, and left his convoy.
"Name and business?" asked one of the guards.
"Roy, the page from Starning, to speak with my lord."
"Wait you there, Roy. I will ask for you."
The guard went off whistling. Isoult fixed long looks again on the two
at the end of the terrace. She was nearly done, "You have made a push for it, my shaver," said the second guard, after
a study from head to toe.
"My business pushed me."
"Ah, trouble in the forest, eh? Are the roads clear?"
"I met with a company."
"How many pikes?"
"Nearer sixty than fifty."
"Where bound?"
"Goltres, I understood."
"Who led?"
"A black knight."
"Ah. Were you mounted, my lad?"
"Not then. I was in hiding."
"Ah. You know what you're about, it seems."
"Yes," said Isoult.
The messenger returned.
"You are to go and speak to Messire," he said.
Isoult saw Prosper coming towards her. Her heart's trouble began; her
knees knocked together, she swayed a little as she walked.