How? By denying himself the sight of her ever-varying grace; by refusing to yield to the charm of her voice. He raised his head more boldly; through her drooping lashes a lazy light shot forth upon him, and the shadow of a smile seemed to say: "That is better. When the mistress is indulgent, a fool should not be unbending. A melancholy jester is but poor company."
And so her mood swayed his; he forgot his resolution, his pride, and yielded to the infatuation of the moment. But when he endeavored to call the weapons of his office to his aid, her glance and the shadow of that smile left him witless. Jest, fancy and whim had taken flight.
"Well?" she said. "Well, Sir Fool?"
His color shifted; withal his half-embarrassment, there was something graceful and noble in his bearing.
"Madam"—he began, and stopped for want of matter to put into words.
But if the princess was annoyed at the new-found dullness of her plaisant, her manner did not show it.
"What," she said, gently; "no news from the court; no word of intrigue; no story of the king? I should seek a courtier for my companion, not a jester. But there! What book have you brought?" indicating the volume that lay upon the bench.
"Guillaume de Lorris's 'Romance of the Rose,'" he answered, more freely.
"Where did we leave off?"
"Where the hero, arriving at a fountain, beheld a beautiful rose tree," said the fool in a low tone. "Desiring the rose, he reached to gather it—"