"But of Touraine?" persisted Marie. "If thy mother is of that country, thou knowest perchance much—almost as much as of thy native Brittany?" "Verily," replied Marcille, with a shrug of his shoulders, "seeing that my father died long since, when I was but a little lad, and my mother, wearying of grey skies and the wails of lost spirits, was fain to return to the sunshine of her own land." "And so," said Marie, her colour deepening as her eager eyes again sought his, "you have long dwelt in the land of our enemies, Sir Minstrel? Aha! but you told not that to our lord yesternight when he asked from whence you came." Marcille spread out his hands with a careless gesture of indifference. "Monsieur asked me only of my name and birthplace," he replied with a smile. "But if perchance mademoiselle fears I am a spy——" He paused, watching her face as she turned it to him. "Nay," she murmured, glancing around to be sure that they were unheard; "I asked,—I asked—because,—because I would have inquired of a noble monsieur from Touraine who journeyed hitherward in the early summer, and in whom my mistress took somewhat of an interest." "For that matter," said her companion, "there is scarce a château in all Touraine whose lord I do not know; for there is ever a flagon of wine ready for the minstrel bard." "But not ever for Breton ballads," slyly replied Marie, with a coquettish side-glance. "Nay," he laughed, "I suit my songs to my company, mademoiselle, for ’tis a foolish bird that sings only on one note, and there are chansons and rondeaux of Touraine and Anjou with which I can woo the dimples to thy cheeks, sweet mistress, as well as ballads of Brittany, to bring tears to those bright eyes." "But," she said, shaking her head at him with a dimpling smile to moderate her rebuke—"but you are foolish, altogether foolish, and I want no compliments of France, but rather listen to what I would ask of you. In this fair Touraine, where all laugh and are gay, have you perchance met one who is named Monsieur Henri d’Estrailles, whose château lies not far from the banks of the Loire?" "So well I know him," replied Marcille, eyeing her steadily, as if he would fain read her very heart—"so well I know him, that at his bidding I am here; pretty maiden, to bring his message to thy fair mistress." "A messenger from Monsieur d’Estrailles!" gasped Marie, whilst the work slipped from her hands and lay unheeded on the floor. "A messenger from Monsieur d’Estrailles!" "Ay, verily," whispered the minstrel. "But speak not so loudly, mademoiselle, for, from what I gather, there were short shrift for me did some here suspect me or my errand." "But I cannot believe it," murmured Marie, her eyes still round with wonder. "It is impossible." For reply Marcille slipped his hand into his vest and brought forth a small ring which lay safely shrouded in his brown palm.