The next day, the Duke Amalon, faring forth earlier than was his custom, chanced to meet Bertille in the street, as she was going forth to do marketing for the household. Making her a low obeisance, he accosted the maid, told her who he was, and how her charms had brought him, at one glance, to her feet. But, to his great surprise, he found that neither the magic title of Duke, nor of Duchess, even, wrought favourably with the girl. On the contrary, her dark eyes showed only fear and resentment, until, taking advantage of the protection afforded by passers-by, she turned swiftly and fled from him, homeward. "Fly away, shy dove," hissed the young lord between his teeth. "None the less there shall be good bird-nesting to-morrow." A week later, Duke Amalon sat at the board. He was sick at heart, his proud face aflame with wine and anger. Messengers were announced, and there entered to him the five servants he had left behind at Châlon. "You have been longer than long enough," he growled at them, "Ere now I would have caught her six times over." "She did not quit the house until this morning, Prince, and 'tis a day's journey twixt there and here." "'Tis well enough, for this time," said he, relenting somewhat. "Bring in the shy dove." And he threw them a purse of gold. As they withdrew, Amalon retired into a far corner of the apartment. The valets led into the room Bertille, pale as the morn, and trembling, her hand upon her breast. "Where am I?" she cried. "Mother of God, whither hast thou let them bring me?" And her beautiful, terrified eyes searched the room. They lighted upon the dark face of the Duke. "Ah!" she cried, and uttering a piercing scream, fell upon her knees. "Well, shy bird; are you still so little fain to become the lady of fair Champagne?" And he drew near to her. The girl raised her eyes. "Do not come near to me," she whispered, and turned away her head. "Come, come, listen to reason, little one. A duchy for your beaux yeux; sooth! tis not too much; yet, for all that, be not too exacting." He laid his fingers under the chin of the kneeling girl. Shuddering, Bertille sprang to her feet; his touch had aroused anger, and, with anger, courage. She turned from him, the red lips blanching, so firmly were they set. "Nay, do not fly my sight, wild dove." "The dove flies the serpent's gaze," she replied. Amalon made a step nearer. She heard the foot-fall, and could not restrain a little cry, that was half appeal, half prayer. As she prayed, her eye caught the glint of something shining upon the wall opposite. That cry irritated the lord. His sensual face grew darker. "Cry on," he scoffed; "Walls hear naught; and my men without hear only my voice." With a sob, she flung herself on her knees before him.