"Tell me, Jacqueline—why do you wish to go?" he said, wonderingly.
"Because I wish to," she returned, briefly, and stroked the shining neck of her horse.
Indeed, how could she apprise him of events which were now the talk of the court? How Francis, evincing a sudden interest as strong as it was unexpected, had exchanged Triboulet for herself, and the princess, at the king's request, had taken the buffoon with her, and left the girl behind. The jestress' welcome to the household of the Queen of Navarre; a subsequent bewildering shower of gifts; the complacent, although respectful, attentions of the king. How she had endured these advances until no course remained save the one she had taken. No; she could not tell the duke's fool all this.
Between folle and fugitive fell a mutual reserve. Did he divine some portion of the truth? Are there moments when the mind, tuned to a tension, may almost feel what another experiences? Why had the girl not gone with her mistress? He remembered she had evaded this question when he had asked it. Looking at her, for the first time it crossed his mind she would be held beautiful; an odd, strange beauty, imperious yet girlish, and the conviction crept over him there might be more than a shadow of excuse for her mad flight.
Beneath his scrutiny her face grew cold, disdainful. "Like all men," she said, sharply, as though to stay the trend of his thoughts, "you are prodigal in promises, but chary in fulfilment."
"Where is it your pleasure to go?" he asked quietly.
"That we shall speak of hereafter," she answered, haughtily.
"Forward then."
"I can ride on alone," she demurred, "if—"
"Nay; 'tis I who crave the quest," he returned, gravely.