“Gentle sir,” said the Lady Beatrix, speaking with an effort and not without agitation, “I know not what you would have me to do. Is it that you wish me to speak to my lord and father on your behalf? If such be your object, say so, I pray you, and it shall be done forthwith.” “Nay, noble demoiselle,” replied Oliver, shaking his head; “that were vain as to appeal to the wolf of the forest to abstain from preying on the deer in the chase. He would not listen.” “But he ever listens to me--he shall listen!” “By the Holy Cross!” exclaimed Oliver, giving way to the enthusiasm which the presence of Beatrix de Moreville created, “I marvel who could refuse to listen to a being so gentle and beautiful. However,” added he, checking himself as he perceived that she was startled by the warmth of his speech, “I will not so far trespass on your generosity as to accept your intercession: nor, in truth, could it avail ought. Between the Lord Hugh de Moreville and myself there has never been much love, and we have twice parted of late not just the best of friends. Moreover, I chance to be of kin through my mother to the house of Moreville, and the Lord Hugh dislikes me more on that account than mayhap he would otherwise do. Wherefore accept my thanks and leave me to my fate. Events have ere this opened stronger doors than keep me here; and credit me, that when I do leave this castle where I have passed so many weary, weary hours, I shall at least carry with me one pleasant memory--the memory of the fairest face that I have seen in England, France, or Spain. Adieu, noble demoiselle; may the saints--especially Our Lady--ever watch over thy welfare and safety!” Beatrix de Moreville moved on pensively, and not without indulging in pity for the young warrior whose language was so earnest and whose plight was so sad. Nor did the knowledge that he was there prevent her returning to the battlements to breathe the evening air; nor, so far as can be ascertained, did she make a point of avoiding further conversation. In fact, she became inspired with a very dangerous interest in her father’s captive, and contrived not only to learn who and what he was, but how he had fought at Muradel and Bovines, and much more about his parentage and his history than was likely to add to her peace of mind. In short, the daughter of De Moreville, the Norman of Anglo-Normans, passed the winter of 1215 dreaming of her English kinsman and picturing him as a hero. Ere the spring of 1216 came he was costing her many a sigh and many a tear. As for Oliver Icingla, he almost felt that he was content with his condition. It would be too much to say that if his prison doors had been opened he would have said with the heroine of the ballad of “The Spanish Lady’s Love”-- “Full woe is me: Oh, let me still sustain this kind captivity!”--