’And who might that other be?’ she asked. ’That,’ I replied, with dignity, ’I am not at liberty to tell. It is yet a secret under trust.’ ’Tell it me,’ she said, bending her eyes on me, that were beautiful as I know not what. And this, indeed, I should very gladly have done at that moment, but truly I knew nothing of the matter. So I made haste to answer that I would readily die for her, but that it was a soldier’s duty that he should keep the secrets with which his honour had been entrusted. ’Then tell me what you can,’ she said, so quietly that I was ashamed of my subterfuge. Though that is the way that all wise men must talk to women, so as to keep the peace, telling them (mostly) the truth, but seldom the whole truth. ’It was,’ said I, ’the Grey Man!’ ’Ah,’ she replied, quickly drawing away her hand, and laying it upon her heart, ’the Grey Man!’ ’What ken ye of the Grey Man?’ I asked her, in surprise. ’Nothing,’ she said, giving me back her hand; ’I know not why, but for the moment something came upon me, and I felt as it had been a little faint. It is nothing. It has already passed.’ Then I wished to bring her a cup of wine from the house. But she laughed more merrily than ever I had heard her, and tossed back the lace kerchief which confined her hair, so that it lay about her white neck with the ends dropping over her bosom. ’Let us two walk here yet a space, Launcelot,’ she said, ’for it is lonely within the great house.’ A saying which made my heart swell with gladness and pride, for she had never thus distinguished any man before, so that I forgot all about my vows and about forswearing to company with women. But this was indeed very different. ’My Lady Marjorie,’ I said (I much desired to say ’My sweet lady’ as they do in the stage plays, but dared not), ’My Lady Marjorie,’ I said, ’I, even I, will be your true knight, and fight for you against all, if so be that coming home I may see the pleasure in your eyes.’ ’Ah, will you truly?’ she asked, and sighed. Then she was silent for a moment but drew not away her hand, which I took of be a good omen. ’No, you must not—you must not. It would not be fair!’ she said. ’I love you with all my heart!’ I whispered, trying to reach her hand; but somehow, though it was very near, I could not again take it in mine. She seemed not to hear me speak. ’Well,’ she said at last, as if to herself, ’perhaps it will be good for the lad.’ I could not conceive what she meant. ’Launcelot,’ she continued, and her voice had music in it such as I never heard in any kirk or quire, at matins or at laud,—’Launcelot, do not think of me, I pray you—at least, not if you can help it—’ ’Help it I cannot,’ answered I; ’it is far beyond that!’ And so I thought at the time. ’But, Launcelot, my sweet squire,’ she said again, ’hast thou already forgotten thy vow? It is better for thee to be a squire of arms than a squire of dames! At least,’ she added, smiling, ’till you win your spurs.’