"The constable had no children?"
"Yes; a girl who, it is believed, died with him in Spain."
The entrance of the servant to remove the dishes interrupted their further conversation. As the door opened, from below came the voices of new-comers, the impatient call of tipplers for ale, the rattle of dishes in the kitchen. Wrapped in the recollections the conversation had evoked, to Jacqueline the din passed unnoticed, and when the rosy-cheeked lass had gone—it was the jester who first spoke.
"What a commentary on the mockery of fate that the sword of such a man, so illustrious, so unfortunate, should be intrusted to a fool!"
"Why," she said, looking at him, her arms on the table, "you drew it bravely, and—once—more bravely—kept it sheathed."
His face flushed. She half smiled; then placed the blade on the board before him.
"There it is."
Above the sword he reached over, as if to place his hand on hers, but she quickly rose. Absently he returned the weapon to his girdle. She took a step or two from him, nervously; lifted her hand to her brow and breathed deeply.
"How tired I feel!" she said.
Immediately he got up. "You are worn out from the journey," he observed, quickly.