When neither money nor burning fagot was flung from the window they
watched, they took their departure, relieved if unrewarded.

In former years the lady of the Castle had thrown them alms. But times
had changed. Now the gentle lady was gone, and the _seigneur_ sulked in
the hall.

With the dawn Charles the Fair took himself to bed. And to him,
pattering barefoot along stone floors, came Clotilde, the child of his
disappointment.

"Are you asleep?"

One arm under his head, he looked at her without answer.

"It is the anniversary of the birth of our Lord," she ventured. "Today
He is born. I thought--" She put out a small, very cold hand. But he
turned his head away.

"Back to your bed," he said shortly. "Where is your nurse, to permit
this?"

The child's face fell. Something she had expected, some miracle,
perhaps, a softening of the lord her father, so that she might ask of
him a Christmas boon.

The Bishop had said that Christmas miracles were often wrought, and she
herself knew that this was true. Had not the Fool secured his voice, so
that he who had been but lightly held became the village troubadour, and
slept warm and full at night?