Into the little town, at the foot of the big house, rode shortly before nightfall the jester and his companion. During the day the young girl had seemed diffident and constrained; she who had been all vivacity and life, on a sudden kept silence, or when she did speak, her tongue had lost its sharpness. The weapons of her office, bright sarcasm and irony, or laughing persiflage, were sheathed; her fine features were thoughtful; her dark eyes introspective. In the dazzling sunshine, the memory of their ride through the gorge; the awakening at the shepherd's hut; something in his look then, something in his accents later, when he spoke her name while she professed to sleep—seemed, perhaps, unreal, dream-like.
His first greeting that morning had been a swift, almost questioning, glance, before which she had looked away. In her face was the freshness of dawn; the grace of spring-tide. Overhead sang a lark; at their feet a brook whispered; around them solitude, vast, infinite. He spoke and she answered; her reserve became infectious; they ate their oaten cakes and drank their wine, each strongly conscious of the presence of the other. Then he rose, saddled their horses, and assisted her to mount. She appeared over-anxious to leave the shepherd's hut; the jester, on the other hand, cast a backward glance at the poplar, the hovel, the brook. A crisp, clear caroling of birds followed them as they turned from the lonely spot.
So they rode, pausing betimes to rest, and even then she had little to say, save once when they stopped at a rustic bridge which spanned a stream. Both were silent, regarding the horses splashing in the water and clouding its clear depths with the yellow mud from its bed. From the cool shadows beneath the planks where she was standing, tiny fish, disturbed by this unwonted invasion, shot forth like darts and vanished into the opaque patches. Half-dreamily watching this exodus of flashing life from covert nook and hole, she said unexpectedly:
"Who is it that has wedded the princess?"
For a moment he did not answer; then briefly related the story.
"And why did you not tell me this before?" she asked when he had finished.
"Would you have credited me—then?" he replied, with a smile.
Quickly she looked at him. Was there that in her eyes which to him robbed memory of its sting? At their feet the water leaped and laughed; curled around the stones, and ran on with dancing bubbles. Perhaps he returned her glance too readily; perhaps the recollection of the ride the night before recurred over-vividly to her, for she gazed suddenly away, and he wondered in what direction her thoughts tended, when she said with some reserve:
"Shall we go on?"
They had not long left the brook and the bridge, when from afar they caught sight of the regal château and the clustering progeny of red-roofed houses at its base. At once they drew rein.