In imagery she had seen him standing aloof, proud, cold, very sure that as man he would never bend the knee to her. Outwardly his rôle should be as perfect as might be, a very skilled art of play-acting, every entrance exact to time, every word carefully conned, faultlessly delivered. She saw him here forcing her to play the part he would assign to her; to deliver, half unconsciously, the speeches that would bring from him the response he desired to make. The very knowledge that he would have the power to do this drew admiration from her, and I am by no means sure that the admiration was grudging. Yet Jester on the stage, he would be man in the wings, smiling at his own skill, mocking at her. This knowledge tantalized, stung, brought her will swiftly yet lightly to the fray. To my thinking this shows her very shallow: her charm I have never denied. To the mere onlooker the conflict may well seem ignoble, unworthy one of her degree. Yet she saw it in other fashion. Rank, degree, sank for the time being into abeyance. It became the conflict—though lightly undertaken—for a soul that had denied her power. Ignoble we may well call it for the one who recognised the conflict, yet ignoble in other meaning than her courtiers might have termed it. It would be, too, no open fight with trumpet call to battle, lances displayed. In such she might well see herself worsted. The castle of the man’s soul must be approached by soft stealth. Guile must take the place of sword and spear. And Peregrine had no hint of that which was about to befall; there was the pity of it. Forewarned might have been forearmed. It is very true that his father’s words had caused him to enclose his soul within a castle, from which, he held, none should lure it forth. Should one use the terms of parable one might name the castle pride. Without, his soul might have had clearer view of approaching dangers. Within, believing himself secure, he saw not the guile which crept towards the walls. Yet direct speech rather than parable will best serve us in the pursuance of the matter. Isabel the woman brought every woman’s art—and of these not one was lacking her—to conquer Peregrine the man. You have seen the result. I have not given you the details of the conflict nor will do so. Though truly to call it a conflict when never once was seen the flash of naked steel seems somewhat of an anomaly. Isabel’s art in this matter would need great skill to set forth. Perchance after some fashion I might show it you were I so minded, yet will I leave it to your imagination. To know the wiles by which a man’s spirit is enslaved is not the most pleasing of knowledge. It certainly holds somewhat of sadness, even possibly of distaste.