Following the King's glance, he saw below the figure of Sir John Shelton, dressed very quietly in ordinary riding costume, and by the side of the knight, Torromé, the valet of His Highness.
Both men nodded, and the King slightly inclined his head in reply.
Then His Highness leant back in his chair, and a little hissing noise, a sigh of relief or pleasure, came from his lips.
Immediately he turned to the Queen, placed one hand upon her jewelled glove, and began to speak with singular animation and brightness.
The Queen changed in a moment. The lassitude and disappointment went from her face in a flash. She turned to her husband, radiant and happy, and once more her face became beautiful.
It was the last time that John Commendone ever saw the face of Queen Mary. In after years he preferred always to think of her as he saw her then.
The tourney was over. Everybody had left the tilting yard and its vicinity, save only the farriers, the armour smiths, and grooms.
In front of the old palace hardly a soul was to be seen, except the sentinels and men of the guard, who paced up and down the terraces.
It was eight o'clock, and twilight was falling. All the windows were lit, every one was dressing for supper, and now and then little roulades of flutes, the twanging of viols being tuned, the mellow clarionette-like voice of the piccolo-milanese showed that the Royal band was preparing for the feast.
Johnnie was off duty; his time was his own now, and he could do as he would.