was a twelvemonth, I hear nought of her; my letters are unanswered.
The postman hath traversed our camp every day, and never brought me a
billet. How is Fatima, Philibert de Coquelicot?"

"She is--well," Philibert replied; "her sister Anne is the fairest of
the twain, though."

"Her sister Anne was a baby when I embarked for Egypt. A plague on
sister Anne! Speak of Fatima, Philibert--my blue-eyed Fatima!"

"I say she is--well," answered his comrade gloomily.

"Is she dead? Is she ill? Hath she the measles? Nay, hath she had the
small-pox, and lost her beauty? Speak; speak, boy!" cried the knight,
wrought to agony.

"Her cheek is as red as her mother's, though the old Countess paints
hers every day. Her foot is as light as a sparrow's, and her voice as
sweet as a minstrel's dulcimer; but give me nathless the Lady Anne,"
cried Philibert; "give me the peerless Lady Anne! As soon as ever I have
won spurs, I will ride all Christendom through, and proclaim her the
Queen of Beauty. Ho, Lady Anne! Lady Anne!" and so saying--but evidently
wishing to disguise some emotion, or conceal some tale his friend could
ill brook to hear--the reckless damoiseau galloped wildly forward.

But swift as was his courser's pace, that of his companion's enormous
charger was swifter. "Boy," said the elder, "thou hast ill tidings. I
know it by thy glance. Speak: shall he who hath bearded grim Death in a
thousand fields shame to face truth from a friend? Speak, in the name
of heaven and good Saint Botibol. Romane de Clos-Vougeot will bear your