It was of Barnabo they talked that morning, hidden by the cypresses, Etoile standing by the leopards’ cage, the great beasts fawning against the bars, and letting her stroke their heads. There seemed some sympathy between her and the two sleek, sinuous cats. The voice and the eyes of Etoile cast a spell upon them. They would purr and rub against the bars when she came near. The Lady of the Peacocks told Gaillard a piece of news that made the man’s eyes grow more hard and restless. “He had better not meddle,” he said; “or I will twist his neck.” Etoile snapped her fingers. “You are a great fool, my Gaillard, Barnabo is not so rough and clumsy. I know the man.” “But the rat is nibbling at our cheese!” “What else can he do, the Savoyard cannot go to bed with him. A man is at a disadvantage. He can only call names.” “Behind our backs, my desire!” “Over the chess-board, perhaps.” Gaillard put a hand through the bars, and scratched a leopard’s head. “It is a pity,” he said, “that we cannot shut Barnabo up with these two innocents when they are hungry. They would play a pretty game with him, a game of knucklebones, with nothing left afterwards but some rags, two sandals, and a brain box.” Etoile laughed, and then looked shrewd. “There are other people who would eat up Dan Barnabo, people in the woods—yonder. Every man has a foolish corner in his heart. If Barnabo asks you how the country seems, tell him the folk are as frightened as mice.” “Very lusty mice, my desire! Call them pole-cats.” “Pole-cats may serve as well as leopards. Be careful of that window in the tower; Barnabo has quick eyes. Go up now and see how the game goes.” Peter of Savoy and the chaplain still had the chess-board between them when Gaillard went up to the room in the tower. The window, widely splayed, had painted medallions in its frames. A song book and a lute lay on a red cushion, with a gaze-hound curled on the seat. The third game was nearly at an end, and Peter of Savoy was rubbing his pointed beard, and chuckling inwardly as he hung over the board. Barnabo brooded, his puzzled, hesitating hands flattering the strategy of his lord and opponent. Gaillard sat down on the window seat to wait. Peter of Savoy was to triumph. Therefore the world went well. A resigned sigh from Barnabo, the tap of a piece on the board, a shuffling of Count Peter’s feet, and the end came. The great man sat back, laughed in his chaplain’s face, and turned a sharp and self-satisfied profile to Gaillard. “So you are back, my Gascon. All our games have gone well, have they? See—I am about to steal his lady.” Gaillard leant forward to watch. “Since he is a priest, sire, you are saving him from great temptation.” Peter of Savoy laughed, but for some reason Barnabo looked up at the Gascon sharply.