"You will never make a huntsman at that rate, Alys—one would think him standing on his horse."
"Help her, then," said the Countess, and her guest took a piece of charcoal and drew out a fair pattern for the girl.
"And mine, madam?" "And mine?" cried the others, and she leaned over the shoulder of each and made her a true picture for her work. But her eye was often on the boy and when the girls were all busy at last, she spoke softly to him.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Madam, they call me Gildres," said he.
"And what do you do, Gildres, in this strange castle?"
"Is it strange?" said the boy. "I do not know. I am to be squire to the lord, my lady's brother, soon, and now I learn falconry and the care of his armour and sometimes I serve the Mass. I wait on my lady herself, too, for I must learn that. But I like best to colour the missals with Father Petrus—you should see the phœnix I did, madam, and the leopard, last week! He said it was brave work—all blue and stars with red pierced hearts in the border, madam—and that the church needed me."
She put her hand on his dark head and sighed.
"If I had kept you with me, you should have made your leopards, dear," she said gently, "but now I have no right in you."
"Nay, but you may help him," said the Countess briskly, "run and get thy phœnix, boy, and she will show thee where even that wondrous bird is at fault."