The six months had now more than expired, during which he had consented not to see her; and that absence had given to his love all that magic light with which memory invests past happiness. The brightest delight, too, of hope was added to his feelings,--the hope of seeing joy reblossom on the cheek of her he loved, and the inspiration of the noblest purpose that can wing human endeavour carried him on,--the purpose of raising, and comforting, and bestowing happiness.
It may easily be believed, then, that the monarch was in one of his gayest and most gladsome moods; and to De Coucy, who rode by his side, full of as high hopes and glad anticipations as himself, he ever and anon poured forth some of the bright feelings that were swelling in his bosom.
The young knight, too, hurrying on towards the castle of Rolleboise, where Isadore, now his own, won by knightly deeds and honourable effort, still remained, uncertain of her fate--gave way at once more to the natural liveliness of his disposition; and, living in an age when Ceremony had not drawn her rigid barrier between the monarch and his vassal, suffered the high spirits, which for many months had been, as it were, chained down by circumstance, to shine out in many a quick sally and cheerful reply.
The death of his companion in arms, the unhappy Count d'Auvergne, would indeed throw an occasional shade over De Coucy's mind. But the regrets which we in the present age experience for the loss of a friend in such a manner--and which De Coucy was formed to feel as keenly as any one--in that age met with many alleviations. He had died knightly in his harness, defending his monarch; he had fallen upon a whole pile of enemies his hand had slain; he had wrought high deeds, and won immortal renown. In the eyes of De Coucy, such a death was to be envied; and thus, though, when he thought of never beholding his friend again, he felt a touch of natural grief for his own sake; yet, as he remembered the manner of his fate, he felt proud that his friend had so finished his career.
It was a bright July morning, and would have been extremely hot, had not an occasional cloud skimmed over the sky, and cast a cool though fleeting shadow upon the earth. One of these had just passed, and had let fall a few large drops of rain upon them in its course, the glossy stains of which on his black charger's neck Philip was examining with the sweet idleness of happiness, when De Coucy called his attention to a pigeon flying overhead.
"A carrier pigeon, as I live! my lord!" said the knight. "I have seen them often in Palestine. Look! there is its roll of paper!"
"Has any one a falcon?" cried the king, apparently more agitated than De Coucy expected to see, on so simple an event. "I would give a thousand besants for a falcon!"
One of the king's pages, in the train, carried, as was common in those days even during long journies, a falcon on his wrist; and, hearing the monarch's exclamation, he, in a moment, unhooded his bird, and slipped its gesses. Lifting its keen eyes towards the skies, the hawk spread its wings at once, and towered after the pigeon.
"Well flown, good youth!" cried the king. "What is thy name?"
"My name is Hubert," replied the boy, somewhat abashed, "My name is Hubert, beau sire."