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“By my sceptre! this is the conduct of a heroine, and you shall be well rewarded. It seems to me that a triumphant march would be about the right thing at this period. What thinks our brother Joel of the proposal?”
“Excellently said, sire. Let there be a march of triumph.”
“There’s only one thing that puzzles me. If we crown Mitaine for her valour, we shall have no Queen of Beauty.”
“By my beard, sire,” said little Joel, stroking his smooth, twelve-year old chin, and aping Charles to the best of his ability—“by my beard, sire, you are puzzled about trifles.” Then he went in search of his friend Riolet, whose eye was getting blacker every minute.
“What do you say to a King of Beauty like that? It is but right that both sexes should have their part in the triumph as usual.”
“What a philosopher he is!” said Charles, laughing till the tears ran down his face. “Let Oghris be brought—he is the only animal worthy to carry my courageous god-child. And you, rival and discomfited knights—it is to you, Berart, and you too, Odille, that I am speaking—go, conduct your conqueror in triumph. But now, what are we to do with the King of Beauty, brother?”
Joel, without answering, called on four knights to volunteer, and placed Riolet on their shoulders, the pain and confusion making him pull some very strange grimaces. In this fashion the procession set out amid loud laughter and cheering.
In the evening Charles took Miton aside with him, and said, “Learn, my friend, that our Mitaine is not intended to wear a petticoat for long. A sword will suit her hand better than a needle. The secret attacks from which, thank Heaven, she has till now escaped unhurt may be renewed, and I would fain have her under my own guardianship. I have an offer to make to you, Count of Rennes. Give her to me for a page, and I will have her brought up to the use of arms. I am greatly mistaken if I do not thus rear a staunch supporter of my son.”