"You are over-bold," she said, a peculiar smile upon her lips.
"Nay; I have spoken no treason, mistress," he retorted blithely.
"Not by word of mouth, perhaps, but by imputation."
He raised his brows with a gesture of wanton protest, while the face before him clouded. Her eyes held his; her little teeth just gleamed between the crimson of her lips.
"I presume you consider Charles the more fitting monarch?" she continued.
Was it the disdain of her voice? Did she read his passing thoughts? Did she challenge him to utter them?
"In truth," the jester said carelessly, "Charles builds fortresses, not pleasure palaces; and garrisons them with soldiers, not ladies."
She half-smiled. Her glance fell. Her hand moved caressingly, the sleeve waving beneath.
"Poor Jocko! Poor Jocko!" she murmured.
Triboulet's glance beamed with delight. She was casting her spell over his enemy.