The emperor shot a quick look at her from beneath his lowering brows.
"I mean—he is brave—and has protected me many times," she explained in some confusion.
"And so you, knowing what you were, remained—with a poor jester—a clown—rather than leave him to his fate?" continued Charles, inexorably, recalling the words of the outriders.
Her face became paler, but she held her head more proudly; the spirit of the jestress sprang to her lips, "It is only kings, Sire, who fear to cling to a forlorn cause!"
His eyes grew dark and gloomy; morosely he bent his gaze upon her. No one had ever before dared to speak to him like that, for Charles had no love for jesters, and kept none in his court. Unsparing, iron-handed, he had gone his way. But, perhaps, in her very fearlessness he recognized a touch of his own inflexible nature. At any rate, his sternness soon gave way to an expression of melancholy.
"God alone knows the hearts of monarchs!" he said, somberly, and directed his glance toward the crucifix.
Moved by his unexpected leniency and the aspect of his cheerlessness, she immediately repented of her response. He looked so old, and melancholy, this great monarch. When he again turned to her his face and manner expressed no further cognizance of her reply.
"You need rest," he said, "and shall have a tent to yourself. Now go!" he continued, placing his hand for a moment, not unkindly, on her head. "I shall give orders for your entertainment. It will be rough hospitality, but—you are used to that. I am not sorry, child, you hate our brother Francis, if it has driven you to our court."