“When man shall flee and woman fail, And folly mock and hope deceive, Let cowards beat the breast and wail, I’ll homeward hie; I will not grieve: I’ll draw the blind, I’ll there set free My heart’s beloved boon company. “When kings shall favor, ladies call My service to their side; When roses grow upon the wall Of life, with love inside; I’ll get me home with joy to be In my heart’s own good company!” “Oh, fool, oh, beneficent fool, well done! ’Tis a song for a man--’twould shame De Carteret of St. Ouen’s to his knees,” cried Lemprière. “Oh, benignant fool, well done!--’twould draw me from my meals,” said a voice behind the three, and turning hastily about they saw, smiling and applausive, the Duke’s Daughter. Beside her was Angèle. The three got to their feet, and each made obeisance after his kind--Buonespoir ducking awkwardly, his blue eyes bulging with pleasure, Lemprière swelling with vanity and spreading wide acknowledgment of their presence, the fool condescending a wave of welcome. “Oh, abundant Amicitia!” cried the fool to the Duke’s Daughter, “thou art saved by so doing. So get thee to thanksgiving and God’s mercy.” [Illustration: “THEY SAW, SMILING AND APPLAUSIVE, THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER AND ANGÈLE”] “Wherefore am I saved by being drawn from my meals by thy music, fool?” she asked, linking her arm in Angèle’s. “Because thou art more enamoured of lampreys than of man; and it is written that thou shalt love thy fellow-man, and he that loveth not is lost; therefore, thou art lost if thou lingerest at meals.” “Is it so, then? And this lady--what thinkest thou? Must she also abstain and seek good company?” “No, verily, Amicitia, for she is good company itself, and so she may sleep in the larder and have no fear.” “And what think you--shall she be happy? Shall she have gifts of fate?” “Discriminately so, Amicitia. She shall have souvenirs and no suspicions of fate. But she shall not linger here, for all lingerers in Delicio’s court are spied upon--not for their souls’ good. She shall go hence, and--” “Ay, princely lady, she shall go hence,” interposed Lemprière, who had panted to speak and could bear silence no longer. “Her high Majesty will kiss her on the brow, and in Jersey Isle she shall blossom and bloom and know bounty--or never more shall I have privilege and perquage.” He lumbered forward and kissed Angèle’s hand as though conferring distinction, but with great generosity. “I said that all should go well, and so it shall. Rozel shall prevail. The Queen knows on what rock to build, as I made warrant for her, and will still do so.” His vanity was incorrigible, but through it ran so childlike a spirit that it bred friendship and repulsed not. The Duke’s Daughter pressed the arm of Angèle, who replied: