The season is spring. The trees are green; their tender foliage but lightly shades the formal walks ranged round a fountain in a little garden (still remaining) that Henry has made for her under the palace walls. The fountain, in the centre of a parterre of grass and flowers, catches the rays of the April sun, glitters for an instant in a flood of rainbow tints, then falls back in showers of spray into a marble basin supported by statues. Gabrielle is dressed in a white robe; the long folds trail upon the ground. Her auburn hair, drawn off her face, is gathered into a coronet of gold; rich lace covers her bosom, and a high ruff rises from her shoulders; on her neck is a string of pearls, to which is attached a miniature of the King. With the years that have passed the bloom of youth is gone; the joyous expression of early days has died out of those soft pleading eyes. Lovely she is still; her complexion is delicately fair, and the pensive look in her face is touching to the last degree. Graceful and gracious as ever, there is a sedate dignity, a tempered reserve, in her address, befitting the royal station which awaits her. She stops, sighs, then listens for the sound of horses’ feet. There is not a breath stirring, save the hum of insects about the fountain and the murmur of the breeze among the trees. She takes from her bosom a letter. It is in the King’s handwriting and shows manifest signs of having been often handled. She kisses the signature, and reads these words:-- “You conjured me to take with me as much love for you as I know I leave with you for me. Now in two hours after you receive this you shall behold a knight who adores you. People call him King of France and of Navarre, but he calls himself your subject and your slave. No woman can compare to you in judgment or in beauty. I cherish and honour you beyond all earthly things.” A dreamy smile comes over her face. Again she raises her head to listen, and again hears nothing. Wearily she paces round and round the fountain, holding the letter still in her hands. Then she enters the palace by an arcaded corridor, and mounting a flight of steps, seats herself in the vestibule to await the King’s arrival. At length he enters the court named “The White Horse.” Gabrielle is on the terrace to receive him. “You are late, Sire.” “Yes, sweetheart. I thought I should never get here. The Seine was swollen and we had a saucy ferryman. Come hither, Gabrielle, and I will tell you what he said, while he pulled us across the river. He was a funny rogue.” “Did he not know you then, Sire?”