Marguerite is very fond of answering one question by another. "I did not; and I could not tell why." "Nor I. But I could." "Then tell me, Margot." "My Damoiselle, every man has a mark upon his brow which the good God and His angels can see. But few men see it, and in some it is not easy to see. Many foreheads look blank to our eyes. But sooner or later, one of the two marks is certain to shine forth—either the holy cross of our Lord, or the badge of the great enemy, the star that fell from heaven. And what I saw on that man’s lofty brow was not the cross of Christ, but the star of Satan." "Margot, thy queer fancies!" said I, laughing. "Now tell me, prithee, on whose forehead, in this house, thou seest the cross." "The Lady Judith," she answered without the least hesitation; "and I think, the Lady Sybil. Let my Damoiselle pardon me if I cannot name any other, with certainty. I have weak eyes for such sights. I have hope of Monseigneur Count Guy." "Margot, Margot!" cried I. "Thou uncharitable old creature, only three! What, not the Lady Queen, nor the Lady Isabel, nor the holy Patriarch! Oh, fie!" "Let my Damoiselle pardon her servant. The Lady Queen,—ah, I have no right to say. She looks blank, to me. The cross may be there, and I may be blind. But the Patriarch—no! and the Lady Isabel—the good God forgive me if I sin, but I believe I see the star on her." "And on me?" said I, laughing to hide a curious sensation which I felt, much akin to mortification. Yet what did old Marguerite’s foolish fancies matter? I was surprised to see her worn old eyes suddenly fill with tears. "My sweet Damoiselle!" she said. "The good God bring out the holy cross on the brow that I love so well! But as yet,—if I speak at all, I must speak truth—I have not seen it there." I could not make out why I did not like the Count of Tripoli. He is a very handsome man,—even my partial eyes must admit, handsomer than Guy. But there is a strange look in his eyes, as if you only saw the lid of a coffer, and beneath, inside the coffer, there might be something dark and dangerous. Guy says he is a splendid fellow; but Guy always was given to making sudden friendships, and to imagining all his friends to be angels until he discovered they were men. I very much doubt the angelic nature of Count Raymond. I do not like him. But what a queer fancy this is of old Marguerite’s—that Satan puts marks on some people! Yet I cannot help wishing she had not said that about me. And I do not think it was very respectful. She might have said something more civil, whatever she thought. Marguerite always will speak just as she thinks. That is like a villein. It would never do for us nobles.