you. You shall go because you are the king's son, and I shall pray for
the new king.' So she beat him, and had him weeping terribly, his face
in her lap. She wept no more, but dry-eyed kissed him, and dry-lipped
went to bed. 'He said Yea that time,' records the Abbot Milo, 'but I
never knew then what she paid for it. That was later.' He went next
morning, and she saw him go.




CHAPTER II

HOW THE FAIR JEHANE BESTOWED HERSELF


Betimes is best for an ugly business; your man of spirit will always
rush what he loathes but yet must do. Count Richard of Poictou, having
made up his mind and confessed himself overnight, must leave with the
first cock of the morning, yet must take the sacrament. Before it was
grey in the east he did so, fully armed in mail, with his red surcoat of
leopards upon him, his sword girt, his spurs strapped on. Outside the
chapel in the weeping mirk a squire held his shield, another his helm, a
groom walked his horse. Milo the Abbot was celebrant, a snuffling boy
served; the Count knelt before the housel-cloth haloed by the light of
two thin candles. Hardly had the priest begun his _introibo_ when Jehane
Saint-Pol, who had been awake all night, stole in with a hood on her
head, and holding herself very stiffly, knelt on the floor. She joined
her hands and stuck them up before her, so that the tips of her fingers,
pointing upwards as her thoughts would fly, were nearly level with her
chin. Thus frozen in prayer she remained throughout the office; nor did