Was the Marquess Conrad an Italian for nothing? Was 'our cousin' the
Emperor of no account, King of the Romans? The Pope Italian, the
Marquess Italian, the Emperor on his throne, and God in His heaven--eh,
eh! there should be a conference of these high powers. So, and with such
whirl of question and answer, did the Count of Saint-Pol beat out to
Paris.

But Jehane remained at Saint-Pol-la-Marche, praying much, going little
abroad, seeing few persons. Then came (since rumour is a gadabout) Sir
Gilles de Gurdun, as she knew he would, and knelt before her, and kissed
her hand. Gilles was a square-shouldered, thick-set youth of the black
Norman sort, ruddy, strong-jawed, small-eyed, low in the brow,
bullet-headed. He was no taller than she, looked shorter, and had
nothing to say. He had loved her since the time when she was an
overgrown girl of twelve years, and he a squire about her father's house
learning mannishness. The King of England had dubbed him a knight, but
she had made him a man. She knew him to be a good one; as dull as a
mud-flat, but honest, wholesome, and of decent estate. In a moment,
when he was come again, she saw that he was a long lover who would treat
her well.

'God help me, and him also,' she thought; 'it may be that I shall need
him before long.'




CHAPTER III

IN WHAT HARBOUR THEY FOUND THE OLD LION