“Ah, she, the Duke’s Daughter--ah, that is a flower of a lady! Did she not say that my jerkin fitted featly when I did act as butler to her adorable Majesty three months syne? She hath no mate in the world save Mademoiselle Aubert, whom I brought hither to honor and to fame.” “To honor and fame, was it--but by the hill of desperandum, Nuncio,” said the fool, prodding him with his stick of bells. “‘Desperandum!’ I know not Latin, it amazes me,” said Lemprière, waving a lofty hand. “She--the Huguenottine--was a-mazed, also, and from the maze was played by Obligato.” “How so! how so!” cried the seigneur, catching at his meaning. “Did Leicester waylay and siege? ’Sblood, had I known this I’d have broached him and swallowed him even on crutches!” “She made him raise the siege, she turned his own guns upon him, and in the end hath driven him hence.” By rough questioning Lemprière got from the fool, by snatches, the story of the meeting in the maze, which had left Leicester standing with the jester’s ribboned bells in his hand. Then the seigneur got to his feet and hugged the fool, bubbling with laughter. “By all the blood of all the saints, I will give thee burial in my own grave when all’s done,” he spluttered; “for there never was such fooling, never such a wise fool come since Confucius and the Khan. Good be with you, fool, and thanks be for such a lady. Thanks be also for the Duke’s Daughter. Ah, how she laid Leicester out! She washed him up the shore like behemoth, and left him gaping.” Buonespoir intervened. “And what shall come of it? What shall be the end? The _Honeyflower_ lies at anchor--there be three good men in waiting, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, and--” The seigneur interrupted. “There’s little longer waiting. All’s well! Her high, hereditary Majesty smiled on me, when she gave Leicester congé and fiery quittance. She hath me in favor, and all shall be well with Michel and Angèle. O fool, fool, fantastic and flavored fool, sing me a song of good content, for if this business ends not with crescendo and bell-ringing, I am no butler to the Queen nor keep good company!” Seating themselves upon the mossy bank, their backs to the westward sun, the fool peered into the green shadows and sang with a soft melancholy an ancient song that another fool had sung to the first Tudor: “When blows the wind and drives the sleet, And all the trees droop down; When all the world is sad, ’tis meet Good company be known: And in my heart good company Sits by the fire and sings to me. “When warriors return, and one That went returns no more; When dusty is the road we run, And garners have no store; One ingle-nook right warm shall be Where my heart hath good company.