"You speak like a scented Sphinx, but I am too idle for enigmas. Farewell!" and she vanished into the palace. Noel looked after her fretfully: "Why are the women all sunflowers to this scaramouch?" he asked himself querulously. "Well, there are other women, and a wise man gathers the nearest grapes." A flagon and cup stood on the table by the marble seat. Noel poured himself out some wine and drank it, seeking consolation. His duty called him shortly to the service of the king, but he lingered in the garden on the chance of a hoped-for meeting. "I shall be revenged," he said to himself, "if my astrologer plays his part and tells the weak king that this Lord of Montcorbier is his evil spirit." His thoughts were busy with the events of the past week; if Katherine had been disdainful, the girl Huguette had been kind, and the Golden Scull had found the dainty soldier a frequent visitor. It was Huguette who, after listening to Noel's complaints of the Grand Constable, had suggested to him, in apparent artlessness of heart, that he could play upon the king's superstitions through a new astrologer and had promised to find him a star-gazer who would say anything and everything that Messire Noel wished to have said. The scheme had appealed to Noel, and this very evening he expected Huguette to bring the astrologer to him, to which end he had entrusted her with a password which would admit strangers into the royal garden. As he mused, a figure in a pilgrim's gown came cautiously out of the shadows into the moonlight behind him and stood for a moment watching him. The god Pan could see the face that smiled under the pilgrim's hood--a girl's face, with bright eyes framed in golden hair, but when the girl saw Noel, she slipped a mask over her face, drew her pilgrim's gown closely about her slim body, and tip-toed lightly across the grass to touch Noel on the shoulder. Noel turned with a start, and faced, as he believed, a masquerading palmer. "May I vend you a benevolence, gentleman?" Huguette asked, disguising her voice in an unfamiliar gruffness. Noel waved aside importunacy. "Pass your ways, pilgrim. I am in no mood for motley." He turned away, but the persistent pilgrim followed him. "Are you in a maid's mood, or a mood for a maid?" Noel stopped impatiently. "Are you pander as well as pilgrim? I wait for a woman." The pilgrim's pertinacity was not to be baffled. "Is she tall or short, young or old, dark or fair, sweet or sour?" Noel answered whimsically: "She is of the colour of the chameleon, of the age of the ancient world, of the height of any man's heart, and as bitter-sweet as a crushed quince." The girl pulled off her mask and threw back her hood. "Is she of my feet, favour, years and savour?" The moment he saw her face Noel gave a cry of delight. "You are welcome, witch," he shouted, "for you. bring the best love in the world!" He sprang to catch the girl in his arms, but she repulsed him gently.