"Will you forbid me, madam," replied Dona Cancha in a kind, affectionate
tone--"will you forbid me to name Bertrand of Artois in your presence,
that unhappy man, with the beauty of an angel and the modesty of a girl?
Now that you are queen and have the life and death of your subjects in
your own keeping, will you feel no kindness towards an unfortunate one
whose only fault is to adore you, who strives with all his mind and
strength to bear a chance look of yours without dying of his joy?"

"I have struggled hard never to look on him," cried the queen, urged
by an impulse she was not strong enough to conquer: then, to efface
the impression that might well have been made on her friend's mind, she
added severely, "I forbid you to pronounce his name before me; and if
he should ever venture to complain, I bid you tell him from me that the
first time I even suspect the cause of his distress he will be banished
for ever from my presence."

"Ah, madam, dismiss me also; for I shall never be strong enough to do so
hard a bidding: the unhappy man who cannot awake in your heart so much
as a feeling of pity may now be struck down by yourself in your wrath,
for here he stands; he has heard your sentence, and come to die at your
feet."

The last words were spoken in a louder voice, so that they might be
heard from outside, and Bertrand of Artois came hurriedly into the room
and fell on his knees before the queen. For a long time past the young
lady-in-waiting had perceived that Robert of Cabane had, through his
own fault, lost the love of Joan; for his tyranny had indeed become more
unendurable to her than her husband's.