“I can see no wrinkles by this light.” “Fair to behold and beholden to no man. I have made fools of them by the score—yes, I! Isoult of the Rose. I go where I please and when I please, and no man has my heart. I am desired—and I desire not. I ask, and am obeyed. Go to, now; you will grant me my desire?” “To go where you please?” “Even so.” He looked at her steadily, as though holding his manhood to the flame of her audacious comeliness. “It is to be where—I please.” “So you say.” “And so I mean.” Her eyes pressed his as one sword presses on another. “So! The boy is not to be cozened?” “I have been very patient.” “Patient! Honey and wine—patient! Jack Frost in doublet and hose!” She laughed, scanned his face with some quickening of her audacity, and drew her hood forward again, consenting to realise that he would abide by his words. Her resignation was frank and confident, the resignation of a fearless spirit whose blood flowed too hotly for little malicious and peevish impulses to live in it. She had a shrewd instinct for the worth of a man’s word, seeing that life and her own heart had taught her the saying, “There is no man whom I cannot fool.” “Let us see the White Lodge, Messire Fulk. I am growing hungry.” She caught the rapid side-glance he gave her as they moved on together over the heath. Her sudden surrender had made him suspicious, so that he held his head high and nosed the air like a stag to get wind of an ambuscado. “I play fair,” she said; “the game is yours—to-night.” His eyes were sweeping the heath. “There may be more than one jay in the wood.” “There was but one to-night; but to-morrow, or the next day——” She broke off with suggestive abruptness, and walked on at his side with a casual complaisance, holding her head high, and watching him at her leisure. She marked the set of his shoulders, and the way he carried his head, as though he lived a hawk’s life, looking ever into the distance, alert, part of the wild. He swung along with sweeping strides, the action of a man who could run like a deer, not the busy strut of the townsman. Now and again his profile was sharply outlined for her—a straight, stark profile with firm lips and a thrustful chin. Presently she began to murmur a song, and the murmur grew into idle, irresponsible singing. She sang in an inward, dreamy voice, the notes flowing out smoothly like water from a marble conduit. It was a rich voice, capable of a delicious flux of sound, subtle, promising many emotions. Fulk kept his guard, though she sang as though it was as natural for her to sing as to breathe. This voice of hers might bring him adventures, brisk blows, and a sore head. “Sing,” said he; “sing as you please. But if you sing any rascal within reach of this short sword of mine he’ll not bless your music.” “I sing to please myself, good sir. Listen: