The girl lowered her eyes demurely.
"I bear a message to our lord king," she replied.
"Then the Christian maiden must wait for heathen dogs."
Fastrada looked up at her two suitors with an arch smile, but only Lupus perceived the trace of malice that lurked in the corners of the scarlet lips.
"Do not be angry for me, Count Hardrat," she said. "It is a pleasure to wait in company such as that with which I am favored."
Both lords smiled at the flattery; but while the duke repaid the compliment in graceful phrases, Hardrat glared at his rival with jealous suspicion. From beneath her modestly drooping lashes Fastrada watched how the Thuringian's brow lowered under the arrogant stare of the duke. Her pulse quickened, and the shifting tints deepened in her downcast eyes. But the war-count checked his threatened outburst, and so put an end to the sport.
Petulantly the girl turned to the entrance, only to look about in appeal to the Vascon.
"Ai, lord duke," she exclaimed; "who are these heathen? I can see only their strange headgear."
"They are Saracen counts, the pagan allies of our Most Christian King," answered Hardrat, and he smiled ironically. "But look,--their audience comes to an end. I can now lead you in before his Majesty."
"I give thanks," murmured Fastrada, but her eyes were fixed upon the envoys. The officials near the entrance had drawn apart, and the white-robed Saracens, having salaamed themselves to a respectful distance from the dais of the mighty Afranj sultan, were completing their exit in a more dignified manner. The tall leader came out like a veritable Sheik el Islam, his firm tread, erect frame, and eagle glance giving the lie to the whiteness of his hair and flowing beard.