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Gaillard showed his teeth, and shot a stealthy, swaggering look towards Etoile.

“To catch the fox, sire, we must have hounds enough.”

“Take them, my boaster, and sweep the countryside. We will ride with you to see the chase.”

“And madame, also? We will show her how these pigs of Englishmen can run.”

That same evening as the sun sank low, Denise went down to draw water at the spring. The woods were full of a glory of gold, and the chequered shadows of the trees fell upon the brown leaves, and the vivid grass. The gorse seemed lit as for the evening of All Souls. Perfumes rose out of the pregnant earth. A hundred thrushes seemed chanting a vesper song.

The heart of Denise also was full of strange, elfin music. There was a smile upon her mouth, and her eyes caught the enchanted distance of dreams. As she drew water at the spring and the ripples of the pool were inset with gold, she sang to herself softly, a song that she had learnt as a young girl, a song of the tower, and not of the cell.