“Methinks,” she said suddenly, breaking a long silence, “that the Lady Isabel favours our present Jester.” Head on one side she surveyed the distant figure meditatively, unashamedly. “The Lady Isabel is gracious to all,” said Mary sedately, her eyes upon her embroidery. “Hmm.” Brigid’s eyes twinkled. Elbow on knee, chin in cupped hand, she cast a side-long look at Mary. “And will you be recording that small speech at confession.” Mary flushed. “I do not understand,” she responded. “No?” quizzed Brigid. “Oh, Mary, methought you were a truthful woman. And here within the space of one minute you have twice—Oh, fie upon you!” Mary, her lips folded upon each other, stitched at her embroidery. “I wonder,” mused Brigid, unheeding her companion’s silence, “just what our dear mistress intends.” Still Mary was silent. “You see,” pursued Brigid, “you know her, and I know her, and methinks her present mood is dangerous for the peace of mind of our friend yonder. Just how far will she lead him? Just how far will she let him feel her power? Ah me, had I her looks instead of the half-hearted dower Dame Nature has bestowed on me, methinks willy nilly the maid would enter the field with the mistress, and should the maid gain the day I’ll warrant the awakening would be less rude to the sleeping fool. Mary, a word in your ear. Melikes that young man.” Mary raised her eyes from her embroidery. “And that,” she remarked quietly, “is the truest word you’ve spoken.” “A true word, verily; but I crave leave to omit the superlative. Let me show the truth of the other words, emphasise it since you hesitate to grant it. Therefore firstly, note our knowledge of the Lady Isabel; secondly, her mood dangerous to the peace of mind of our friend yonder; thirdly, the awakening less rude were it left to me. And firstly, secondly, and thirdly holds, I’ll warrant, every whit as much truth as lastly. Hence I say again, I omit the superlative, by your leave.” For a moment Mary was still silent. Then she spoke, her voice grave. “You are barely charitable, Brigid; and, methinks, hardly loyal.” Brigid shrugged her shoulders. “As for loyalty, I do not speak in this fashion save to you. And for charity—bah! Were I to divest my speech of all criticism methinks ’twould be as savourless as food without salt and spices, mere pap for babes.” Mary sighed. “You sigh, and rightly. Mary, it angers me. Man though he is, his rôle is but that of fool,—fool by birth, heritage, and calling. She is as guarded from him as ever was Brunhilde from Siegfried by the ring of fire. He knows it, and she knows it. Yet by the syren song of her she lures him ever nearer. And, if her song continues, one day in madness he will try to pass the barrier of flame. Her song and madness alone will urge him to the attempt. Then the flame will burn him; and I know, yes, I know, she will mock at his wounds.” Low and fierce Brigid spoke the last words.