"The Light of Light Divine,
True Brightness undefined.
He bears for us the shame of sin,
A holy, spotless Child."

But the song failed. Perhaps it was the wrong hour, or perhaps it was
because she had not slept in the manger and brought forth the gift of
voice.

"Blood of the martyrs!" shouted her father, and raised himself on his
elbow. "Are you mad? Get back to your bed. I shall have a word with
someone for this."

Whether it had softened him or not it had stirred him, so she made her
plea.

"It is His birthday. I want to see my mother."

Then she ducked under the curtain and ran as fast as she could back to
where she belonged. Terror winged her feet. She had spoken a forbidden
word.

All sleep was gone from Charles the Fair. He lay on his elbow in his bed
and thought of things that he wished to forget: of the wife he had put
away because in eight years she had borne him no son; of his great lands
that would go to his cousin, Philip of the Black Beard, whom he hated;
of girls in the plain who wooed him with soft eyes and whom he passed
by; of a Jew who lay in a dungeon beneath the Castle because of usury
and other things.