The etiquette was this. The Queen-Countess sat in her chair of state in the midst, till her shoes were taken off, and her hair dressed for the night. Right and left of her, according to their degrees, sat the other great ladies; and behind each of them, where they could find places, the maidens. It was Torfrida’s turn to take off the royal shoes; and she advanced into the middle of the semicircle, slippers in hand. “Stop there!” said the Countess-Queen. Whereat Torfrida stopped, very much frightened. “Countesses and ladies,” said the mistress. “There are, in Provence and the South, what I wish there were here in Flanders,--Courts of Love, at which all offenders against the sacred laws of Venus and Cupid are tried by an assembly of their peers, and punished according to their deserts.” Torfrida turned scarlet. “I know not why we, countesses and ladies, should have less knowledge of the laws of love than those gayer dames of the South, whose blood runs--to judge by her dark hair--in the veins of yon fair maid.” There was a silence. Torfrida was the most beautiful woman in the room; more beautiful than even Richilda the terrible: and therefore there were few but were glad to see her--as it seemed--in trouble. Torfrida’s mother began whimpering, and praying to six or seven saints at once. But nobody marked her,--possibly not even the saints; being preoccupied with Torfrida. “I hear, fair maid,--for that you are that I will do you the justice to confess,--that you are old enough to be married this four years since.” Torfrida stood like a stone, frightened out of her wits, plentiful as they were. “Why are you not married?” There was, of course, no answer. “I hear that knights have fought for you; lost their lives for you.” “I did not bid them,” gasped Torfrida, longing that the floor would open, and swallow up the Queen-Countess and all her kin and followers, as it did for the enemies of the blessed Saint Dunstan, while he was arguing with them in an upper room at Calne. “And that the knight of St. Valeri, to whom you gave your favor, now lies languishing of wounds got in your cause.” “I--I did not bid him fight,” gasped Torfrida, now wishing that the floor would open and swallow up herself. “And that he who overthrew the knight of St. Valeri,--to whom you gave that favor, and more--” “I gave him nothing a maiden might not give,” cried Torfrida, so fiercely that the Queen-Countess recoiled somewhat. “I never said that you did, girl. Your love you gave him. Can you deny that?” Torfrida laughed bitterly: her Southern blood was rising. “I put my love out to nurse, instead of weaning it, as many a maiden has done before me. When my love cried for hunger and cold, I took it back again to my own bosom: and whether it has lived or died there, is no one’s matter but my own.” “Hunger and cold? I hear that him to whom you gave your love you drove out to the cold, bidding him go fight in his bare shirt, if he wished to win your love.”