"Humph!" added Charles. "Thus do our plans come to naught. If you got her, and wore her, what end would be served?"
"No end of state, perhaps, Sire."
"Why," observed the monarch, "the state and the faith—what else is there? But go your way. How smooth it may be no man can tell."
"Is the road like to be rougher than it has been, Sire?"
"The maid belongs to France," answered Charles, "and France belongs to the king."
"The king!" exclaimed the duke, fiercely.
Involuntarily had they drawn rein in the shade of a tiny thicket overlooking the valley. Even from this slight exercise, bowed and weary appeared the emperor's form. The hand which controlled his steed trembled, but the lines of his face spoke of unweakened sinew of spirit, the iron grip of a will that only death might loosen.
"The king!" repeated the young man. "He is no king of mine, nor hers. To you, Sire, only, I owe allegiance, or my life, at your need."
A gentler expression softened the emperor's features, as a gleam of sunshine forces itself into the somberest forest depths.
"We have had our need," he said. "Not long since."