"—Well, thereby demonstrating nothing new," said Sieur Raymond. "So do you remember that Pierre must have his bread and cheese; that the cows must calve undisturbed; that the pigs—you have not seen the sow I had to-day from Harfleur?—black as ebony and a snout like a rose-leaf!—must be stied in comfort: and that these things may not be, without an alliance with Puysange. Besides, dear niece, it is something to be the wife of a great lord."
A certain excitement awoke in Matthiette's eyes. "It must be very beautiful at Court," said she, softly. "Masques, fêtes, tourneys every day;—and they say the new King is exceedingly gallant—"
Sieur Raymond caught her by the chin, and for a moment turned her face toward his. "I warn you," said he, "you are a d'Arnaye; and King or not—"
He paused here. Through the open window came the voice of one singing to the demure accompaniment of a lute.
"Hey?" said the Sieur d'Arnaye.
Sang the voice:
"When you are very old, and I am gone,
Not to return, it may be you will say—
Hearing my name and holding me as one
Long dead to you,—in some half-jesting way
Of speech, sweet as vague heraldings of May
Rumored in woods when first the throstles sing—
'He loved me once.' And straightway murmuring
My half-forgotten rhymes, you will regret
Evanished times when I was wont to sing
So very lightly, 'Love runs into debt.'"
"Now, may I never sit among the saints," said the Sieur d'Arnaye, "if that is not the voice of Raoul de Prison, my new page."
"Hush," Matthiette whispered. "He woos my maid, Alys. He often sings under the window, and I wink at it."
Sang the voice: