"But of Touraine?" persisted Marie. "If thy mother is of that country, thou knowest perchance much—almost as much as of thy native Brittany?"
"Verily," replied Marcille, with a shrug of his shoulders, "seeing that my father died long since, when I was but a little lad, and my mother, wearying of grey skies and the wails of lost spirits, was fain to return to the sunshine of her own land."
"And so," said Marie, her colour deepening as her eager eyes again sought his, "you have long dwelt in the land of our enemies, Sir Minstrel? Aha! but you told not that to our lord yesternight when he asked from whence you came."
Marcille spread out his hands with a careless gesture of indifference.
"Monsieur asked me only of my name and birthplace," he replied with a smile.
"But if perchance mademoiselle fears I am a spy——" He paused, watching her face as she turned it to him.
"Nay," she murmured, glancing around to be sure that they were unheard; "I asked,—I asked—because,—because I would have inquired of a noble monsieur from Touraine who journeyed hitherward in the early summer, and in whom my mistress took somewhat of an interest."
"For that matter," said her companion, "there is scarce a château in all Touraine whose lord I do not know; for there is ever a flagon of wine ready for the minstrel bard."
"But not ever for Breton ballads," slyly replied Marie, with a coquettish side-glance.
"Nay," he laughed, "I suit my songs to my company, mademoiselle, for 'tis a foolish bird that sings only on one note, and there are chansons and rondeaux of Touraine and Anjou with which I can woo the dimples to thy cheeks, sweet mistress, as well as ballads of Brittany, to bring tears to those bright eyes."